CatTales: Moving Violations
by C. Mage
Summary: Based upon the fanfic of Chris Dee:  Gotham City has a new resident, a man who'll drive for anyone, whether it's ferrying bank robbers to safety or taking a celebrity to the premiere.  The Batmobile can't seem to stop him.  The question is: Why Gotham?
1. Chapter 1

Cat-Tales: Moving Violations, Part I - Ignition

By C. Mage

Not many thought much of the car that pulled into the parking lot of the Iceberg. True, it wasn't exactly a junker. The car was a 1967 black Corvette Stingray, with plenty of chrome on the sides and wheels. Most hangers-on and rich groupies who wanted to flirt with the "bad side" came in driving cars with more recent dates and Italian pedigrees.

This one…this one bore looking into not because of the car, but because of the Driver.

The driver's side door opened, and a man stepped out, closing the door and locking it behind him. The first thing noticeable about his was his size. Easily over six feet tall, with a strong frame and broad shoulders and chest. The second detail that stood out was his hair. Red, flaming red, but not neon red, cut short and slicked back in the manner of a person whose entire skill with styling hair was limited to terminal mousse abuse and combing in one direction: to the back and over the top. He wore aviator's glasses, showing clearly the brown eyes in the sea of tanned skin, the color of someone who worked outside and didn't really care one way or the other how his tan looked. He wore driving gloves, which he took off and folded once, putting them into his right jacket pocket as he walked towards the entrance.

His clothes became more distinct under the lights, black leather motorcycle jacket, black leather pants with a red lightning bolt pattern down the sides. Snakeskin cowboy boots with metal arrowhead tips on the toes. Clean-shaven face, but the shadow on his chin and cheeks couldn't be completely defeated even by the best blades on the market. He took off his glasses and put them away in his jacket as he put his hand on the door.

The man took a deep breath. "Showtime."

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Sly was a man whose job had many facets. Oswald prided himself on hiring the best, and being the best wasn't just a matter of pouring drinks. Sly needed to be observant. His timing with serving just what the customers needed was pristine. Robin Williams himself wished he had that kind of timing. Sly also had a knack for reading people. Knowing what they needed, whether to notify the bouncers if someone was coming in too loud or drunk already, staying aware of possible changes in the wind when some of the regulars started to tense up…that kind of skill didn't come along every day.

So when the Driver came in, Sly gave the man in black his attention. Sly figured this was not a man who drank mixed drinks. In fact, the way he came in and the way he walked, Sly didn't consider him one of the wannabe henchmen who often came in looking for employment. He put away the SoCo bottle and smiled to the newcomer. "What'll it be, sir?"

"Ginger ale."

Sly wasn't entirely surprised. This man didn't come in looking for a drink. "Straight?"

"Add some lime until it turns green."

"Coming right up, Mister…?"

The man smiled. "Call me Driver."

"You got it, Driver." Sly knew the voice patterns well enough. They said, "Not in a talking mood, so serve the drink and keep the conversation to a minimum, thanks." Not mean, just not talkative…not yet. He didn't come in to drown sorrows, but he came in alone and ordered something, so he came here for a reason. Best to get the drink, stay around for further requests and wait to see if what he has to say is going to cause trouble.

The stranger smiled as he took his drink. Before he'd taken his first sip, he'd already walked the room with his eyes. Booth to the left, shrouded with vines, and the vines were restless. Poison Ivy. Far end of the bar, lady wearing bomber jacket, tight pants and boots, nursing a bourbon on the rocks. Roxy Rocket. Small group at a table to the left and rear. Killer Croc, wearing pants, drinking beer like it was tap water. Gentleman wearing environmental suit, calling for vodka and adding his own ice cubes. Mr. Freeze. Man with large nose and even larger hat. The Mad Hatter. Finally, a man with a dapper suit of Lincoln Green and holding a cane with a question-mark head. The Riddler. Playing cards, draw poker. Looked like Croc was winning. And last, but certainly not least, a group of men at the bar, looking decidedly morose. A few girls at another table, debutantes on the wild side. One man at the end of the bar trying to drink himself into oblivion. Raven and Sparrow, all smiles, but he could tell they were bored out of their minds when not irritated by the presence of some of the visitors to the Iceberg Lounge. Slight difference of clothing indicated Raven was the hostess.

The Driver smiled. This was going to be easier than he thought.

Sly felt a little relieved when the Driver spoke up. Awkward silences bothered Sly. "Hey, bartend. I'm new in town, and I was wondering if you could tell me a little about this city." He wasn't shy about his request and he wasn't stingy, either; Ben Franklin soon found himself mingling with other Presidents.

"Of course. What would you like to know?"

"Well, what's the job situation around her for wheelmen, couriers, jobs of that nature?"

Sly considered. "There's a lot of call for jobs like that in a city like this. Problem is, people who take that kind of work usually end up as either disposable or useless." He leaned forward slightly. "You may have noticed that a lot of successful…entrepreneurs usually have a gimmick of some kind. Something that makes them memorable."

The newcomer nodded. "Fair enough. I offer transport of people or objects from point A to point B, by road. As for a gimmick, well, I offer something they can't."

"Like what?"

"A guarantee that nothing will get in the way of successful and timely transport." The Driver took another sip. "Not traffic, not competition, not even police."

"What about the Batmobile?"

The Driver turned to the speaker. Of course, it was only proper that the one who would end up asking the Big Question would be the Riddler. "What about it?"

"Are you suggesting that you can outwit the Batman in his own car, in his own town?"

Now the Driver had everyone's attention, though not all showed it. He smiled. "No, I'm not suggesting it at all. I'm saying it flat out." He waited for the inevitable laughter, which came quicker and louder than he expected. He nodded, waiting for it to subside, then added, "I sense some skepticism in the room."

"And I sense that you are a fool," Mr. Freeze intoned. "Have you even seen the Batmobile in action?"

"I've seen some news footage." He neglected to mention that he'd seen a lot more than news footage.

"I have seen it in action. You will not escape it if Batman is driving it."

The Driver smiled broadly. "Care to make a little bet on that?"

"What sort of bet?" Now everyone was visibly interested. Even Poison Ivy was watching from behind the leafy curtain. Roxy was looking at him with a different kind of intensity as she picked up her drink.

As she walked over, the Driver said calmly, "I'll bet five grand right now that in a week's time, me and the Batman are going to have a little race, and I will get clean away."

Croc narrowed his eyes. "You got that kind of scratch on you?"

In answer, the Driver reached into his jacket, pulling out a stack of Benjamins and slapped it on the bartop, all without taking his eyes off Croc. "Bartender, can I trust you to hang onto the bets for me?"

"Yes, you can, wauk, wauk, wauk." Oswald stood by the end of the bar, making a dramatic entrance. "In fact, I'll take your little wager and match you, Driver."

"Good."

The Riddler smiled. He was looking forward to telling both Selina and Bruce about this. It would give him the advantage, to say the least. Batman would already be prepared for this little race and it would swing the odds heavily in his favor. "Count me in."

As the bar began to buzz with other bets, the Driver suddenly found Roxy standing next to him. "You're crazy, do you know that? Why would you want to challenge the Batman in his hometown?"

"Because I know I'm going to win."

"I knew it. I knew there was something I liked about you. My name's Roxy. Roxy Rocket."

"I've heard of you."

"Haven't heard of you."

"Oh, I've been around…San Francisco, Las Vegas, Dallas, Chicago, Boston. I've been lots of places."

"Oh, I bet. See you later?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw nearly half the bar giving him a thumbs-up. He had a feeling that Roxy would've probably asked him up to her place right then and there, just from her body language alone, but he didn't go to the Iceberg to get a warm body for the night. This was business.

"Sure. On the eleven o'clock news." He put down a twenty, then finished his drink. "Keep the change."

Roxy watched him walk to the door. "You don't want another drink?"

He turned back and smiled. "I don't drink and Drive." And then he was gone. She followed him outside to see him drive off , laying rubber all over the street as he sped away.

Meanwhile, inside, Edward Nygma was making a phone call. "Selina, you are not going to believe this…"

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Selina hung up the phone. She considered what she had just heard, then stifled a very catlike grin. She couldn't help it. On the one hand, if Batman went out and found this Driver and summarily defeated him on his first job, the Dark Knight would likely end up exuding levels of self-satisfaction only experienced by pampered felines. Bruce in the role of smug victor was a little on the annoying side.

But if this new guy actually won, it would knock Bruce off his pedestal a bit, make him more human, more (dare she think it?) fallible. Selina loved Bruce, loved him dearly. She also loved tweaking his Bat-ears, tweaking his Bat-ego, and generally keeping him on his toes. Otherwise he could become infuriating. He was right a lot more often than not, and he knew it. Hence the need for regular ego-tweaks.

For instance, the toys like the utility belt, the car, and the other gadgets he designed, created with his own two hands. He had them made with his own personal touch, so they were all a part of Bruce Wayne and Batman. Loving him, Selina could delight in the brilliant mind that thought up an arsenal so perfectly suited to his life's work, and the satisfaction he took in them. On the other hand, sometimes it all seemed like Eddie's riddles, a demonstration of how much smarter and cleverer he was than everyone else. There were times Selina felt if she heard about him knocking one more gun/knife/lootbag out of someone's hand with a batarang, she was going to have to start stealing again just to introduce the batarang-proof glove into circulation.

He needed a kick in the tail like that, from time to time. Otherwise he was apt to forget that he was Bruce Wayne under all that Battitude, that he was human. And remembering that he was human was the most important thing in the world to Selina. It was the human part of him that allowed them to finally get together.

It didn't hurt having all the betting going on. It was a stark difference from the usual drama in her life.She was going to put money on Bruce, of course. She wondered how far the Driver would get before Batman stopped him. Batman would stop him,that was his thing, his deal, his shtick, it was what made Bruce put the black suit on. The Driver, however, didn't seem like the typical criminal. Some people aspired to vengeance, or power, or money. Who in their right minds would aspire to being a professional wheelman? It was like hearing a politician state that he always wanted to be the Vice President, but not the President.

_But then,_ she thought to herself as she headed down to the Batcave,_the number of people I associate with that have all their marbles in their toy boxes is down to a scant few._

"Hey Handsome, fresh news, straight from the Iceberg grapevine," she announced as she walked down the stairs.

"You're in a good mood," Bruce said, a slightly suspicious tone in his voice.

"New player in town. Waltzed into the 'Berg and publicly challenged Batman, says he can outdrive the Batmobile."

"Did he." His lip twitched.

"You don't sound all that worried." Selina grinned.

"I'm not. I get challenges like that on a weekly basis."

"How many go into the Iceberg and make them up front?" She sauntered over and leaned over the back of his chair. "How many get the odds down to 3-to-2 on sheer bluster and cockiness?"

"They're betting on a race?" Bruce sat up and turned in his chair, now more than mildly interested. "Between this newcomer and the Batmobile?"

"Guy put down five grand on himself to win, others followed suit."

Bruce shrugged. "I've heard worse. Put me down for five. I'm good for it."

She walked over to the workout area. "If you want, I can do a little research on him. It'd be easy, I could say I was hedging my bets."

"How long before he says he's going to try and humiliate me?"

"Don't be snippy. He just said he's going to beat the Batmobile, not dump a skunk on the driver's seat and stick potatoes in your tailpipe. Besides, take that tone of voice, and someone might think you were worried."

"I don't get worried about wheelmen with customized hardware. I save my concern for mad men that might want to gas a shopping mall."He started up a file on the Bat-comp. "Does the mystery-man have a real name?"

"He calls himself 'the Driver'. I like it, simple, yet elegant, says what he is and doesn't at the same time. He's got a sense of style, at the very least. Not yours, he apparently likes a little color in his wardrobe. According to the people at the Iceberg, he favors cowboy boots, of all things. And no mask."

Bruce typed in the name. "Selina, not to sound condescending, but in the past few years, we've dealt with a lot. I think after all we've been through, a man behind the wheel of a car is not that big a deal." Bruce chuckled.

Selina knew that little chuckle well, that little I've-got-it-all-under-control laugh he does when he thinks he's got a sure thing, figured out all the angles. _Maybe he's right,_ she thought. _Maybe this guy's nothing more than another wannabe who decided to break open his piggy-bank and make an all-or-nothing play to get the attention of people who'd want to hire him. Maybe he'll get to the starting line and his car will stall on him. That'd be quick. Embarrassing, but quick._

_But somehow, I don't see that happening._

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The Driver put down the phone. It was on.

He called the Iceberg and smiled as Sly came on the phone. "Yes?"

"Warm up the big screens, Sly. Saturday night. Eight-thirty. Serve lots of beer and buffalo wings."

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It was a bank. Seven-thirty-three pm.

Batman stopped outside the Gotham First National Bank. As he looked over at the front of the building, past the police cars circling the block, his first impression so far about his adversary was that the Driver was missing a few ball bearings. He tells Penguin about the job, where it's going to happen, practically advertises it in the Gotham Times. Batman frowned.

What is he after? Because from where I sit, he's just looking to get arrested. Informants for the police have been selling the news on this bank heist for the last four days. There are eight police cruisers and a SWAT van outside the bank, an hour before the heist is supposed to take place. And he must suspect I'm here, I'm the one he called out. The Driver must be a big fan of the Old West…

That's when he heard it.

Batman turned to the right to see a car coming. High-beams split the night, turning a corner and heading right for one of the cruisers. The police waved, then realized the car wasn't slowing down! They leaped clear just in time as the oncoming car RIPPED through the cruiser's midsection like a needle going through cloth, giving Batman a better look at the Driver's vehicle…which was no Corvette.

The vehicle was a wide-body speedster, built low-slung. It was as massive as the Batmobile, but wider and not as long. It was also painted cherry-hello-officer-red, with large gray fenders and black hubcaps, grill and rear. There was a spoiler on the rear, same color red, and the windows were tinted a reflective black. The headlights looked a little like monsters' eyes, the bright lights tinted crimson. The tires had bulky treads, made for street racing.

And seeing as how the car was driving up the steps and right through the revolving doors, it was a pretty safe bet the car had lots of torque. Batman started up the Batmobile, moving it slowly out of its hiding place.

Then the explosion ripped apart what little façade remained of the bank. A massive blast shattered windows on the building from the sixth floor on down, forcing the police to take cover inside their cars.

Batman threw the Batmobile into gear. This was getting too hairy, he thought, switching into Apprehend Mode. It's time to stop this right now.

It was too easy. Batman simply drove the Batmobile up to the front of the bank and barricaded the front. The lobby of the bank wasn't made for building up speed, so the bulk of the Batmobile was more than sufficient to keep even a monster like the red car inside, turn the race into a waiting game. Batman gunned the engine as he rode the stairs right up to the entrance, knowing that the Batmobile's throaty whine would tell even the deaf that the Batmobile was there. He smiled.

The red car was trapped.

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Croc grinned. "Hah! What'd I tell you? He got himself cornered!"

Riddler took another handful of pretzels. "Somehow, I think it would be foolish to count him out so quickly."

Oswald grumbled. He'd laid heavy money on the Driver. "Come on, you boastful buffoon! Get out of there!"

Selina sighed. "I had a feeling this was going to be quick."

And that's when the speakers blasted, a mighty Godzilla-roar filling the Iceberg, snapping everyone's eyes to the screens.

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Batman saw the headlights of the car burn through the darkness of the lobby, then saw the car driving straight for the Batmobile. He saw the front to the car pop up and realized the car was being propelled forward by a pair of mounted jets on the sides of the car, just above and to the right of the rear fenders. Batman ducked involuntarily as the red car skidded OVER the Batmobile's right side, landing at the bottom of the stairs and skidding on the asphalt, then fishtailing as it headed off down Canal Street.

Batman reversed the Batmobile, pulling a bootlegger's reverse at the bottom of the stairs and taking off after the red car in hot pursuit.

The Driver smiled as he tore off down Canal St. "How's our route looking, partner?"

A female voice of liquid seduction came from his right. "Everything on schedule, stud. Three point nine miles and closing."

"Good. Time to give Die Fledermaus the slip." He downshifted, the speedometer jumping to fifty, then sixty, steadily climbing as he tore off down the street. The red car moved down the road, the Batmobile closing in on him fast. He checked his speed. "Let me know if I reach a plus-or-minus twelve second variation."

"Noted. He's coming up fast."

The Driver checked the speedometer. A hair below sixty-five. He smiled. "Think it's time I got out of third gear."

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Batman drove past the parked cars on the side of the road. There were times when the Batmobile's size was a detriment, but it was a choice he'd made a long time ago. If anything, the other car was wider, making it easier to keep track of with lateral vision, but it had a lower center of gravity, which meant it could be more maneuverable.

Then Batman saw the car round the corner, making a wide U-turn, the rear tires fish-tailing wildly as he took the corner and headed back the way he'd come. Batman turned sharply and drove over the median, barely missing the car as it blew past him. Despite the lost chance to stop the car in his tracks, Batman smiled. The Driver must've realized too late that the streets beyond were little more than alleys, too thin to allow the red car to get through without getting jammed up.

And that meant he didn't know the streets as well as Batman did.

Batman gunned the engine and moved in right behind the red car. This race was already over. The Driver just didn't know it yet.

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The Driver took the right turn at forty miles an hour, skidding only slightly as it headed north. A sign on the side of the road proclaimed the Gotham East Tunnel was a mile ahead. He grinned. "I think Bats needs an oil change. Drop on my mark."

"You got it, hon." A light came up on the dashboard. "Ready when you are."

The Driver drifted to the right, heading through the tunnel as it wound first to the right, then left, heading north again. The two cars entered the tunnel at just over seventy and still accelerating. He smiled. "Grease 'im."

The Driver's car suddenly spread two thin layers of substances over the road behind him. One was a common grade of motor oil. The second was a much more sophisticated compound, readily cooked with common chemicals, but which, when combined with 10w-30 oil, made the oil into a water-soluble, completely frictionless compound.

The Batmobile's tires made no sound whatsoever as it skidded to the left, only a whispering SSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH as it bounced off the wall, its momentum carrying it towards the opposite wall as the tunnel turned to the left. Batman knew the only way to keep from spinning out of control was to shift to all-wheel drive and spin the compound from the tires. He gritted his teeth as the Batmobile careened around the corner, scraping the right wall loudly as he tried to maintain speed.

The Driver shot out of the tunnel, heading due north. The Batmobile exited a few seconds later, the compound finally beading off the tires. Batman found the car gaining traction again and snarled as he wrest control of the Batmobile from the forces of inertia. When the Batmobile began to obey the steering wheel again, Batman realized he was three car-lengths behind, but still in the race.

It was time to pull the gloves off.

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The action at the Iceberg was now heating up. The betting was moving fast and furious, so to speak, and the Iceberg was seeing its largest attendance in months. At first, Oswald thought he was going to have a small riot on his hands when the Batmobile blocked the bank, but as soon as the Driver blew past the Batmobile after the U-turn, the regulars and the new customers alike were screaming for more. With four TV helicopters on the scene and tags for the tunnel cameras piped through in advance, the Iceberg patrons were getting ringside seats.

"I put ten-to-one the Batmobile doesn't catch him!"

"I'll take that action!"

"I put twenty Gs on the Driver!"

"Thirty!"

Sly set up another tray of drinks, turning to Sparrow. "Ready for table three!" He noticed Sparrow was a little distracted by the sight of the red car eating up the road. "Sparrow! Table three's thirsty!"

"Oh, right!" She blushed and picked up the tray. As she left, Sly went to the intercom and tapped it. "Where are those hot wings?"

"Coming right up!"

"Better be. Croc looks hungrier than usual!"

Oswald walked over to Sly, more puffed out than usual. "We're raking them in, Sly! The after-party _alone_ is going to make us more money tonight than we'd make in two weeks! I say, my boy, when the Driver comes back in, give him a tab and all the ginger ale he can drink! Kegs of it!" He laughed, wakking several times and rapping the heel of his cane on the floor. "You place a wager, dear boy?"

"Yeah, Mr. Cobblepot. Fifty on the favorite."

Oswald chuckled. "I think you may be overly optimistic, my boy, but I approve your choice. I seriously question the Driver's ability to escape, but what can I say? I love backing an underdog every so often."

"I don't think he's that much of an underdog." Sly said with a knowing grin. "I think he's got more under the hood than anyone thinks."

"Be that as it may, if you're right, it only means a greater reward if he does. If he does not…I will still come out ahead!" Oswald laughed. "How often can one find a sure thing nowadays?"

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The Driver checked his instruments. So far, Batman was playing things by the numbers. They were at the six-point-three-mile marker and things were on schedule. All he needed to do now was shut his passengers up. "Hey man, the Batmobile's coming for us!" yelled the leader of the trio who'd robbed the bank.

"Really? Is that what that big car behind us is? I thought that was just a crazy limo driver."

"Get us outta here, man! We're gonna get caught!"

The Driver sighed. "Changing topic. You got enough money back there to cover the shipping fees?"

"Yeah, we got it, but we ain't never gonna spend it if we don't get away!"

The Driver cut off the feed to the passenger section. The front and rear seats were divided by a tinted window and soundproofing, so the passengers could rant and rave all they wanted without bothering him. "Natives are getting reckless, baby. Scan our tailgater, let me know if he decides to try using any tricks on us."

"Speaking of which, I am detecting activity on the Batmobile. Looks like he's going to start pulling out the artillery."

The Driver smiled. "Good. Right turn coming up, tell our clients to hold on to their privates. As soon as we turn, use the repellent on the chassis. Spray the tires, too." His smile widened. "I can't wait to see the look on his face."

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Batman was becoming concerned. The Driver's vehicle was taking too many chances, his driving too wild. All the earmarks of a man with a carefully laid plan going awry. He'd seen it far too many times to count; watching thugs and crooks tell the world how they were going to "take out the Bat", or something equally bold. All of them ended up the same way: spending the next few years in a room without a view, wearing jumpsuits, most from the alma mater of Arkham Asylum. Catching this crook wasn't the question. It was now a matter of taking him down quickly, or his reckless driving was going to end up hurting someone or worse.

Fortunately, Batman wasn't driving a Honda.

He tapped a button and armed the APC, one of his more reliable tools. It was a simple device, mounted one on each side of the Batmobile with a one-eighty degree firing arc front to rear. When fired, a blob of greenish-gray gel made of a top-secret chemical compound flew towards the offender, coating it and hardening to a substance with the consistency of thin concrete. Just the thing for disabling vehicles by locking wheels, cementing cars to the asphalt, clogging radiators and blocking windshields. Coats, soothes…detains. _Let's see how cocky he is when he's superglued to the road._

He saw the Driver take a hard right, heading north, towards Gotham Bridge. He checked the scheduling and frowned. There was a barge coming, and that meant the bridge on the southern section would be going up…which meant that if the Batmobiile could herd him towards the bridge, not only would the Driver be trapped, the area around it would be clear of vehicles, making the Driver's capture sure and safe.

Batman smiled as he gunned the engine. _End of the road, Driver._

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The Driver checked the map overlaid on the windshield. "Barge's early. The bridge is going to be up sooner, higher angle. Options?"

"We can try jumping, but there's a chance Batman will infer that the Mauler's capable of much more. There's a better than average chance that will make escape less likely."

"Nothing for it, gonna have to pour on the speed." He shifted as he pulled the right turn, driving on the sidewalk and shoving a parked compact car to the side, spinning it around as he tried to shave time off his schedule. "How's our guests?"

"Going a little crazy back there."

"Good. Was getting a little lonely being the only nutjob in the car."

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Batman fired as soon as the Driver finished the turn, aiming for the rear tires and rear window. A rapid-fire burst of three shots plastered the rear of the Mauler, the gel beginning to harden. Batman smiled as he saw the gel change color from greenish-gray to gray as it hardened upon contact with the air.

Unfortunately, his smile didn't last.

Batman watched as the gel began to flake and slide off the car's chassis, the gel covering the rear right tire shedding and cracking like the shell coming off a hard-boiled egg. The Driver's car didn't even lose speed.

That was impossible. The compound had been tested on every known metal and plastic substance, including all paint and finish composites known. The gel was flawless in every respect.

Batman's eyes narrowed. The Driver knew about the gel, he'd done his homework. And if he knew enough to find a counter-agent for the gel, that meant he wasn't some punk or a glorified speeder.

The Driver was prepared.

Batman downshifted. It was time to change tactics.

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"Looks like Batman's going to try to cut us off."

The Driver nodded. "He figured out what was going on sooner than I thought. That's going to make things complicated. Baby, figure out the probability of capture if we move on with current speed and pre-arranged route."

"You got it." A few seconds passed. "Looks like the Batman nails us with a thirty-seven percent higher probability. Not a hundred percent, still betting odds."

"Maybe, if this was a real race. We're going to have to," he said, taking a deep breath, "change the plan."

Stunned silence from next to him.

"Babe, I got a bridge coming up, wanna focus?"

"Right, right, less than a mile…you really shouldn't surprise me like that, Stud."

"Going to have to punch it. Give me updates on the Metropolis 549 as we change speeds."

"Got it."

"One more thing…arm the Bollix."

"That's not exactly a precision weapon, you know."

"Desperate times." He urged the car faster, the speedometer crossing the threshold between double-digit and triple-digit speeds. "Fire as soon as he crosses the bridge." He stomped the accelerator and the Mauler surged forward as it hit the edge of the incline, still gaining speed as it roared up the ramp.

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Batman knew fear when he saw it.

He'd seen and experienced more than his share, more than a hundred's share. Over the years, he'd seen and experienced enough fear to recognize and exploit it in others, no matter what kind it was. The kind of fear that made sane men gibber, the fear of imminent danger, destruction, ruin…and the small kinds of fears, the ones people experience daily.

This kind wasn't desperation, not quite, but Batman knew that something was different. The car's sudden acceleration and swerve as he went up the bridge revealed that Batman had somehow provoked an effect in the Driver, something unexpected. Unexpected meant the Driver was caught off guard by something, and Batman was not about to let that kind of opportunity slip away. He accelerated as well, only three car-lengths behind the Driver, and the gap between them began to narrow…

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The Driver's face lit up, suddenly inspired. "Baby, hold off on the Bollix. Arm it, but don't fire it yet!"

"What?"

The Mauler soared over the bridge, clearing the gap with room to spare. The Driver kept the hammer down as the car landed, the chassis skipping like a stone and bouncing three times before all four tires could grip the road again. He didn't need to look behind him or ask his partner where the Batmobile was.

The Batmobile was on his tail. He could sense it as acutely as he could feel the wheel under his hands.

"What's on your mind, Driver?" She called him by his code name. She only did that when she wasn't sure what was going on, a rare condition with this team.

"I want to see how badly he wants me. Bring up the map and the route." One of the screens rotated fifteen degrees, the display of the car's systems changing to a map and their route in red. He looked it over for a second, then tapped it three times, altering the route. "There."

"Hot Stuff, have you gone even further out of your mind than usual?" his partner asked him in mixed awe and disbelief.

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Roxy was GLUED to the screen.

She'd pulled her chair over to the main screen, sitting front and center, her drink getting warmer and her nachos getting colder. She watched with rapt attention at the chase, the police cars falling behind at the bridge, the police helicopters still in pursuit. The customers' yells were getting louder, but she didn't hear anything.

All there was in the world was Roxy, the TV and the Mauler battling it out with the Batmobile.

The rest of the Iceberg was starting to resemble the Superbowl crowd. Croc found himself having to yell over and over to get the people to quiet down. The volumes on the sound system rigs were already up to airline-engine levels and the people in the Iceberg were still making it hard to hear at times.

Oswald looked out over the crowd with a mix of pride and a little fear. The Iceberg Lounge was making money like crazy, but the crowd was starting to get heated. _It would be a fine mess, _he mused with a sense of irony, _if I had to call the local constabulary for assistance. I wonder what they'll say, if they even decide to show up. "Oh yes, we'll be over as soon as we can…"_

He sat back in his chair and smiled. _Of course, I could always have Croc keep the peace. Nothing says "keep it down" like the threat of having one's arms pulled off._

Down in the Lounge, the bets were getting higher. One particularly loud and obnoxious patron was trying to get the bets over fifty grand, but Sly wouldn't accept wagers without cash on hand. Oswald watched as the belligerent drunk was suddenly jerked off his feet and pulled towards Ivy's booth, then lifted to hang upside down by her vines. Oswald couldn't tell what she said to the man, but from the way the inebriant's face turned white despite the blood rushing to his head, Oswald figured that Pamela had dealt with the man with her usual grace and tact.

It was nice to see everyone in the Iceberg getting along so well.

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The Driver's plan was risky from the start. He knew it from the moment he came up with the plan five months ago.

He'd learned a long time ago during vehicular training that any car chase with the police would only be successful if the pursued lost their pursuers soon after the chase began. The longer the chase, the more likely the event of capture, and the Driver had planned both his route and the chase to last long enough to make his point. He needed to get the attention of everyone in Gotham. "How many choppers are in the air, and how many of them are news?"

"Six helicopters, two police, four television. According to the newsnets, you just earned yourself a few news briefs during prime time." A worried tone crept into his partner's voice. "Hon…"

"It's almost over." He downshifted, the speedometer now well over a hundred. "We've got two possible barriers…and a passenger train."

"You make that sound like it can only be a good thing. Listen, it's getting too risky. With the route you've selected, our chances of making it through the final checkpoint drops to less than forty percent."

"We have to do this. I am not going to get caught by the Keystone Kops and spend time in a cell until I get 'suicided' two hours later. And there will be a night when Batman and I meet face-to-face, but it's not going to be tonight."

"He's coming up on the left, thirty-eight feet and closing. At this speed, left turn in twenty-eight seconds."

He nodded. "Should I warn the passengers?" he asked with a grin that suggested he already knew the answer.

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Batman was starting to get frustrated.

The Batmobile was one of the most advanced vehicles ever built, but even technological superiority eventually had to give way to physics. The armor of the Batmobile was made to shrug off everything from small arms fire to light anti-tank weapons, but it was heavy material. Add in the forward thrust created by the turbine engine, and the Batmobile was a missile with wheels. Problem was, the suspension of the vehicle could only do so much at certain speeds, and he was forced to resort to using the side-mounted cables to assist his turns. Even then, at just under a hundred and ten, the next left turn was nearly disastrous as the grapple that fired from the left side of the chassis and latched onto the lightpost nearly bent the post double.

The Driver's car did slow down to a mere seventy-six to make the turn, but its acceleration popped it up to one-twenty almost as soon as the turn was made. The wide body and low center of gravity kept it from flipping over, and the tires gripped the asphalt as it turned. The Driver barely cleared a block before making another right turn, heading north once again, accelerating past one-thirty and rising.

Batman snarled as the G-forces of the right turn pushed him nearly out of his seat, but held on and pulled into the turn, completing the turn before the line from the right side of the Batmobile could snap. The Driver was now pulling ahead, passing one-forty and still accelerating.

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Anyone who wanted to shut off the TVs in the Iceberg Lounge risked certain death from the viewers. The betting was all but done as the patrons were mesmerized by the way the race was developing. Roxy was hypnotized, jaw slack as she saw the Driver give Batman the driving lesson of his life.

Nobody was ordering drinks or food now. Every person in the Iceberg was watching the show, listening to the reports from the news crews and the police scanners. The cars were pulling away now, moving faster than the helicopters in the sky, the spotlights barely able to keep up. "This is incredible!" said Summer Gleeson as she read from the papers in front of her in the newsroom, "The two vehicles are now accelerating in excess of one hundred and sixty miles per hour…and…wait a minute….this just in! The Metropolis Express on track eighty-two is scheduled to cross their path, and the track is only six miles ahead of them!"

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"Driver…the train's early," his partner said worriedly. "We have to abort!"

"Calculate minimum speed necessary to clear tracks before the train passes," he replied, gunning the engine and surging forward. The speedometer crept past one hundred and seventy-five, and the Driver downshifted further.

"Too many unknown factors," she said back as they swerved, blowing past three startled motorists as if they were in reverse.

"Then I guess we're just going to have to just improvise!" He saw the train coming, the engine screaming too loud to hear the horns of the train that he knew were blowing as they saw him coming.

"Stud, every time you say that, it starts getting expensive!" she said angrily.

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Batman saw the train coming. He watched at the Driver just kept right on going, speeding past other cars, the turbulence in his wake stirring up trash and papers from the gutters. He realized that if the Driver miscalculated and didn't make it past the train, the resulting collision stood a better-than-average chance of damaging the engine at best, knocking the engine off the tracks at worst. He armed the grapplegun mounted on the front of the Batmobile, knowing full well that at these speeds, using the gun to stop the Driver would likely cause them both to crash, maybe even come apart at these speeds.

But it was better than risking the lives of those passengers on the train.

He aimed the grapplegun, waiting for the right moment, hoping he wasn't too late…

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"Driver, he's aiming a grapple device at us!" the female voice warned.

The Driver checked the road ahead. Apart from the tracks ahead, the road was clear. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em," he said with a smile.

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Batman heard the grapplegun's targeting computer gave him a flat tone showing a target lock, pulling the trigger just as his view went completely white. _SMOKESCREEN!_ His mind screamed at him and he stomped on the brakes with both feet, the computer reading the pressure on the brakes and the current speed, activating the Emergency Braking System. Panels on the sides, top and front of the Batmobile flared up, the tires stopping and a trio of parachutes deploying out the back of the vehicle. He felt the straps of his seat tighten, pressing hard into his shoulders and chest as inertia took its toll on him. The Batmobile screeched to a stop, the onboard computer guiding the wheels to keep the vehicle from turning and flipping over twenty-nine times.

He was past the smoke, giving him a wonderful view of the Driver and the train heading for the same point in space.

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Nobody in the Iceberg spoke. Group catatonic shock. They watched in uncomprehending disbelief as the Driver's car reached two hundred miles per hour and kept right on going. They all watched as the Batmobile came to a stop. Their eyes were wide as they saw the Driver's car blast through the gates blocking the train tracks. Roxy stared in awe as the Driver crossed the tracks, the front plate of the train scraping the rear bumper, causing sparks to fly…

And then he was gone as the helicopters lost sight of him.

The roar inside the Iceberg could be heard from the street level as the slow-motion replay confirmed that the Driver had actually made it past the train without being smashed, but nothing more could be determined. It was gone. The sound dropped, but not by much as the bets were confirmed and Oswald personally ordered a round of drinks for all, on the house. Once that was done, he sat down heavily and tugged at his collar to loosen it.

Sly walked over to Oswald. "Are you all right?"

Oswald smiled. "Whew…and I thought dealing with the Bat was nerve-wracking."

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Batman slammed the side of the Batmobile as he finished searching the road on the other side of the tracks. After the train had passed, he had crossed over to find a set of skidmarks on the other side, showing that the Driver had slowed to a more normal speed, then…nothing. Not a trace. No tracks showing where it had gone, no imprints, nothing.

It was as if the car had simply ceased to be.

After spending nearly an hour checking the street for the next mile and finding nothing, he was forced to admit that the Driver had outmaneuvered him. He didn't know what he was looking forward to least: having to admit to himself that he'd underestimated the Driver…or dealing with Selina's I-told-you-so cat-grins.

One thing was certain. He was not going to underestimate the Driver again. With that in mind, he got back inside the Batmobile and drove away, back to the Batcave to examine the footage of the race.

For ten minutes, the area was calm. The police choppers moved away to search for the car along their route, other police cruisers investigating the streets to the north. The news choppers headed home to report the story of the year.

No one was around when a shimmering object moved from a nearby parking lot. It was nearly invisible as it moved to the street, then the shimmering field changed to something visible, a bright yellow Hummer that drove south, heading back the way the Driver had come. After taking a few turns, the Hummer stopped at a building in the downtown district…less than five blocks away from the bank.

Four men got out, carrying black duffel bags in each hand, then the door slammed. They waved to the Hummer and went inside, leaving the SUV outside to idle.

Inside, the Driver was counting the extra money for cleaning the seats. "Not a bad haul. Maybe I should reconsider my policy on tipping."

"I don't know about you, Stud, but I could use a little downtime. Can we go home now?"

The Driver finished counting. "Sure thing."

"That was a hell of a risk you took back at the train tracks…"

The Driver shrugged. "Wait until you see my next trick."

"Well, Hot Stuff, you did it. You beat the Batmobile and you made it look easy. People are going to be calling your number night and day."

"Problem is, it only _looked_ easy." The Driver sighed. "I had the element of surprise, the route and methods planned out to the smallest detail, and Batman's own ego working for me. Even so, he figured out I wasn't some two-bit wheeljockey looking for a fun time way too quickly. I could tell by the way his driving changed. I caught him flat-footed _this_ time, but he's not going to underestimate me the next time." He sighed. "The honeymoon's over, babe. But now we've got some money, which means we can upgrade our digs. More money to pick up at the Iceberg Lounge, which means a few creature comforts, some replacement parts and fluids, medicine..."

"Sounds like we just went up in the world. Almost makes up for you putting every dime we had on that bet you made in the Iceberg." Her voice was half-amused, half-scolding.

"Nag, nag, nag. We got it back in spades, and then some, and we picked up some money from a paying job." He grinned. "All we have to do is get it laundered and we'll be in business." The Hummer drove away into the night, the Driver tapping a button on the console, opening up a cellular phone channel. "Hello, Sly? It's the Driver. I'll be in to pick up my winnings in two days." He hung up and grinned. "Start spreading the news…" he began to sing, "…I'm leaving today…I want to be a part of it…Go-tham, Go-tham…!"

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At an office in Washington D.C., a tall, somewhat lanky man in an Army uniform sat at his desk, looking out at the night sky through his office window. The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up on the second ring. "Hello?" he asked.

"We've found him," came the voice over the line. "Gotham City."

The man nodded, light reflecting off the stars on his shoulders. "Get it done," he ordered in a smooth and even voice.

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Cat-Tales: Moving Violations, Part II – Shifting Gears

By C. Mage

The aftermath of The Great Race was a little chaotic.

The police department began discussing the need for creating a task force specifically for the purpose of catching the driver of the mysterious car. The bank robbers were eventually caught when two of the them decided to use marked bills to buy a boat, a car and several thousand dollars' worth of home theater equipment, all on the same day. However, when the police realized that the perps never saw the face of their wheelman, it complicated things. Without positive identification of the Driver, the only way to ensure a legal capture was to catch him in his tracks or amass enough circumstantial evidence to pin the crimes on someone…both prospects daunting.

The patrons of the Iceberg were more than willing to give props to the Driver for successfully evading the Bat, at least this time. However, the only time anyone saw him after the Race was two days later. He came in during the early morning when only Sly and Oswald were there, and he stayed around just long enough to pick up his money and leave. He didn't even stay for an enthusiastically-offered ginger ale, on the house. Oswald found himself a little impressed about how calm the Driver was. Most wheelmen after a job like that would've had an adrenaline high for a week, shaking hands, nerves, the whole nine yards. Instead, he looked as casual as if all he'd done was pick up some milk at the grocery store.

Sly handed over the money in an ICEBERG LOUNGE gift shop bag. "Here you go. Want to count it?"

"Do I need to?" he asked, a little mirth in his voice that didn't touch his face.

"Uh, no, of course not."

"Then why would I?" He turned as Oswald came out of the back. "See anything good on TV lately?"

"Don't get too cocky, my boy. You beat the Bat once, I'll give you that, but to say that the Dark Knight is relentless would be like calling the TITANIC a 'boating mishap'. And after a public defeat like that, I don't suggest starting any long books."

The Driver smiled and headed for the door, talking as he walked. "Well, in return, I'd like to offer a little advice. You ever play Roulette?"

"On occasion. Why?"

He stopped at the door and opened it, turning slightly. "My advice: always bet on red."

And then he was gone.

Oswald turned to Sly. "I have a distinct feeling we're going to have more events like the one we had two nights ago. Perhaps I should consider adding to the menu."

"By the way…" Sly took out a small piece of yellow paper. "I got a call from someone asking about the Driver."

"Another fan? Remind me to have those calls screened."

"I don't think so. He sounded like a police officer, asking how much we knew about him, details on his care, if we had him on video…"

"Pay it no mind. If he was a federal agent, he would be a great deal more subtle about finding information. It is a common scare tactic…but it might be wise to review the tapes, make sure we don't have anything incriminating." He rubbed his chin. "Finish up, meet me in the office."

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Oswald's brow was furrowed as Sly came into the office. The wall facing him had sixteen monitors, each one showing a different view of the Iceberg, time-coded for the night the Driver came in and the day he came in to collect his bets. "See anything interesting about our Driver's face?"

Sly turned to the monitors and looked. Then he looked again.

The Driver's face seemed to be covered, at all times and from all angles, by a black shadow. From the moment he entered until he left, his face was completely obscured from view. "I don't get it. If he didn't want us to know his face, why didn't he just wear a mask?"

"Elementary, my dear Sly." Oswald puffed up, eager to show off his knowledge of law enforcement. "Plausible deniability. If any lawmen come in, asking about the Driver, we can easily say that we don't know who he is, because we can always say he was wearing a mask. Therefore we can be of no help with a sketch artist, and we cannot be coerced into providing a description. If someone decides to, say, steal the tapes or have a warrant to acquire them, the tapes will not aid them." Oswald shut off the monitors. "I think I have divined a clue about our Driver. His tactics and mannerisms, not to mention his approach to hiding his identity, suggests that he was once an operative of some shadowy agency that our government deems necessary to exist. And going by the rules of the people he likely worked for, he's trying to distance himself from others to keep his actions from complicating our lives."

"So he's trying to help us?"

"Oh, make no mistake, my boy, he's not doing this out of some altruistic quirk. The fewer connections he has with others, the easier it will be for him to walk away if his cover is somehow compromised. The man is a pragmatist, not a saint." Oswald smiled. "There is an old saying that goes, 'A crook is a person who commits crimes for a paycheck, but a spy is a person who commits crime for a flag.' He's doing all this for a reason, and not for the money. We need to find out what his 'flag' is, and find out how it affects us, before it's too late. Sly, we're going to unmask our dear Driver."

"How?"

Oswald grinned. "Sly, ask any historian who brought down the most powerful people in the greatest empires of the world, and they'll tell you the same thing: it's all because of a woman."

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The main screen in the conference room came up, illuminating the faces of several men and women. All of them were of varying ages and backgrounds, but they all had faces belonging to severe personalities. All were dressed in black clothing with no identifying marks whatsoever. The one in front, their leader in all but name, pointed out the statistics linked to several names for major cities. "We've found him."

"Can you be sure?" asked Number 13. She was younger than most, but ambitious enough to qualify. Her name was Dr. Viola Constantine, a displaced researcher for the now-defunct Lexcorp.

"As you can see from the footage, there can be no doubt." He pointed to a particularly graphic display of the Mauler tearing through a pair of police cars as if they were made of balsa wood and muslin. "That's the prototype."

"Where is this feed from?" That was from Number 4, an older gentleman with aristocratic bearing, a senator from New Hampshire.

The leader looked at them all. "Gotham City."

Murmurs filled the room as the implications were discussed among the members. "Then we need to hasten our plans for Gotham and the Batman." Number 4 insisted.

"I agree. We must make contact with the Batman and secure his assistance." Number 7 said with a hint of satisfaction. Her face was lined with wrinkles, yet she was smiling broadly.

"No! We have to sanction him!" Number 3 was adamant. "He is unsympathetic to our cause. He still maintains his connections with the Justice League. He will turn on us if we reveal FENRIS to him!"

"If you'll note his history, Number 3, you'll note that he has maintained his membership with the League, but his style is still very different from theirs. There has been strife within its ranks, as evidenced by the information from our sources in the media and the Justice Department. I submit to you all he only stays in the organization not out of loyalty, but for a purpose of his own. Don't you see? If he resigned, many would be asking why. He cannot afford to have such scrutiny. So he remains in the League, on his terms, and he can act with impunity." Number 7 retorted. "Plus, as you well know, all indications show that Batman falls under the Skilled Normal category. The measures we adopt will not apply to him."

"And yet he has been known to consort with the worst kinds of criminals. In fact, according to our sources, he has consorted on several occasions with the Catwoman, a person with decidedly UN-American attitudes and shaky reputation. She has been categorized as a possible recipient of the metagene." Number 9 brought up a file. "Before we can proceed with courting Batman, this particular cat needs to be belled."

The arguments began to escalate until Number 1 slammed his fist down on the table. "This bickering is pointless. What is worse, it undermines our shared purpose. Need I remind the assembled members that Operation: FENRIS is vital to the preservation of the American Way of Life? You may consider those mere words, but some of us here take those words quite seriously. The American Way is the preservation of what makes this country great! But instead, we have aliens, foreigners, freaks and mutants clogging our streets, drawing the worst kind of law-breaking elements. I say that if there had been no Batman, Lex Luthor would have achieved his potential and made this country truly great! The weeds of humanity take root in the soil that these reckless 'heroes' till for them! We must be of one mind and one purpose: the make sure that these 'superheroes' learn their place. They are nothing more than weapons, abominations of nature…but they can be made into_useful_ abominations." The others nodded assent as he continued. "The problem is, and I hope we are in agreement, ladies and gentlemen, is that sentimentality in the American public for these 'heroes' is dropping. The Justice League's approval ratings are dropping. What makes this undesirable is they shouldn't be dropping, they should be plummeting. If we begin FENRIS before the public is ready, we risk being painted as traitors or villains in the media, and we shall be crucified, make no mistake. When the world turns its back on these heroes, we will be there to offer them safe haven, a life, a purpose…serving the American people as controlled, quantifiable assets. We have all agreed to this scenario, many times over…it is by that reason alone that we must meet in secret under these circumstances. It is no secret that there are metas and sympathizers that have considerable skill with electronic countermeasures and counter-intelligence. Oracle's existence alone force us to conduct ourselves the way we have for years, leaving no paper trails, using word-of-mouth to our subordinates, never documenting anything that could leave a trace that can be gathered the way a squirrel gathers hidden acorns. Are we all agreed in this?"

The other Numbers nodded.

"Then we must be of one purpose, of one mind, of one will. These petty details divide us. To that end, we will judge the situation and act accordingly. We will make contact with the Batman, engage his help and see if he is of like mind. If he is, we shall ensure that the prototypes are brought back in." The Leader smiled broadly. "We shall prevail. FENRIS shall prevail."

"And what of the agent? He is the last surviving member of the Icarus-5 initiative."

"He is mortal. I have reviewed his files and I do not see his involvement to be of any significance."

Number 12 spoke up. "I disagree. I have reviewed his files and his training. The gene therapy from the chemical compound Lot I-5 he was subjected to gives him metahuman-class abilities. Speed, strength and mental acuity have all been enhanced. He learns in a week what would take others a year to master. In his time working for the Army as a sniper, he has racked up enough kills in his short time on hard targets to earn him a chest full of medals, if the Army ever wanted to acknowledge he existed. He has performed the blackest of ops with a one-hundred-percent success rate. For a man of no 'significance', he is going to be a big, fat piece of trouble."

Number 1 smiled. "Then you have not read the same files I have. Thanks to the Icarus-5 treatment, he is susceptible to substances that normal people view as recreation. For instance, his system is vulnerable to ethanol and acetaldehyde. For those not in the chemistry field, it is a substance that is produced when ethanol is metabolized. Due to complications with the Icarus-5 program, the agent's system reacts with ethanol as if he was given ten times the size of the actual dose. Inebriation would set in almost instantly, followed closely by unconsciousness. Acetaldehyde is a substance produced as a byproduct of metabolizing ethanol, and if produced in levels beyond what the human body can process, results in what people call a 'hangover'. After time has passed, the agent would be rendered unable to feel anything but pain, completely incapacitated. All it would take to neutralize him would be making him imbibe alcohol, either by deception or force, or injecting it into his system directly. Once that's done…he's cut bait. The worst threat he'll pose is throwing up all over your upholstery."

"That may be useful, but it still does not suggest an actual plan of action, or how to proceed."

Number 1 smiled broadly, a smile few liked upon seeing it. "I have already arranged for Numbers 52 and 53 to start tapping our resources in the NSA, the FBI and the CIA, as well as some of our less reputable assets." He brought up the last known picture of their rogue agent. "We just need to send him a more permanent reminder that the Icarus-5 project was decommissioned, and all the subjects along with it."

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Selina walked down into the Batcave, Alfred behind her with a tray with breakfast sitting upon it. French Toast with peaches, syrup on the side, sausage and a tall glass of pineapple juice. As the Bat-Computer came into view, Selina noticed that Oracle's head was displayed on the holo-projector and multiple pictures of the Mauler in action were on the screen. Apparently, both of them had been burning the midnight oil by the pint. "I'm not finding anything on him. None of the security cameras along the car's route turn up anything, and the video feeds you sent me from the Batmobile haven't turned up anything yet besides the files I set you six hours ago."

Bruce wheeled out from under the Batmobile. If Selina knew Bruce, he was going over every nut, bolt, screw and seal at least four times to make sure the Batmobile was functioning at peak. Any possible flaws that might've hampered him, any shred of doubt, was being excised.

"Any hits off possible designers able to create that kind of vehicle?" he asked.

"Nothing private, so far. I'm going to check the records of their transactions. Building a car like that was not cheap, so if any of them commissioned something like that, I'll know by nightfall. I'm also checking corporate designers; unless they brought someone new in for this project, this car should have some artistic resemblances to some of their other products."

Bruce nodded, then looked up at Selina and Alfred. "Keep me posted."

"Well, you're up early," Selina noted with a grin.

"Technically, I'm up very, very late."

"I know. I was joking." She walked over to the table where blueprints of the Batmobile were scattered like an art deco tablecloth. "Mind if I move these?" she asked, rolling up the blueprints and setting them aside.

Bruce waited until she was done, then said dryly. "No, not at all."

"Soup's on," she said brightly. "So, when are you coming to bed?"

"When I'm done."

"Any idea when that will be? Are we talking, 'I'll be done in a couple of hours', or 'Let me know when it's time to hand out the Christmas presents' or somewhere in between?"

"I've got work to do, Selina."

She sat down and picked up a slice of peach, chewing it idly. "This isn't a plot to poison, destroy or mutilate anyone."

"That's not the point."

"Oh, I _know_ what the point is. There is a certain amount of time and resources Team Bat allots to poison-destroy-mutilate endeavors and a certain amount it gives to the other kind. This 'Driver' character is being given the former level of attention. The question is, are you going to make me come right out and say it, or are you going to admit it first?"

"This isn't about that."

"Bruce… darling… love of my life, light of my dashboard, you should know by now that cats know denial when the smell it, and I, in particular, know the scent of your particular brand of denial. Don't forget, you're not even attracted to me because I'm a criminal."

"This is hardly—"

"You've been outmaneuvered in the past, Dark Knight. I should know; I was there a on several of those occasions. I know well enough how you react. Now seriously, for the sake of your blood pressure, just put it in a drawer for a while."

"I can't. Not yet. I need to find out what this Driver's plans are."

Oracle's icon flashed and her voice came from the Bat-Computer's speakers. "You are not going to believe this…he's on TV."

Bruce sprang to his feet. "Show me!" He turned to Selina, as if to say, _See?? I knew this was going to happen! He's going to reveal some threat to Gotham City or master plan or…_

The TV signal opened in a smaller window on the screen. "…need a trip to the airport and you're worried about the wrong people holding you up? Need an important delivery made that you can't trust to the Post Office or the Boys in Brown?" The voice was distinctively feminine, with a delectable purr that was almost shameless. Alfred's eyebrows rose until they almost went over the top of his head. "Don't trust a taxi or a limo. Call the Driver at 555-3748. That's right, call us at 555-DRIVE. An operator is standing by, waiting for your call. Don't bother with a price list, we will offer you a fair estimate for the kind of job, legal or not-so-much. We accept cash, credit cards on a case-by-case basis. Don't wait. Give us a call. 555-DRIVE. That's right, 555-3748. Call now!"

The commercial ended, leaving Bruce staring at the screen in disbelief, Selina smiling in amusement and Alfred pouring coffee for the both of them. "Well… the vile, despicable monster's master plan seems to be… buying airtime on WGCE."

Bruce looked at her disapprovingly. "How can you laugh at something like this?"

"I'm not laughing, Bruce, I'm not rolling back and forth, gasping for breath, holding my stomach, and doing a Joker impersonation. I am mildly amused that he takes credit cards. I mean, come on. Refitted Porsche engine $2800, blowing the doors of the Batmobile, priceless. It's funny."

"Uhm, he's not just television," Oracle interrupted. "He's got radio ads three times a day on all five major radio stations. He's also having a quarter-page ad put into the Gotham Yellow Pages."

Bruce felt as if he'd been sideswiped. "Oracle…"

"Already checking the number." She paused for a few minutes. "It's busy. All of Gotham must be calling him now."

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The Driver, however, was not at his phone. He was hard at work.

The accommodations for the jury-rigged garage were decent enough, at least to do the work necessary to keep the Mauler running. It was a dirty warehouse on the Gotham docks, largely forgotten and remote enough so that anyone looking for the Mauler would be detected long before they got too close. No one lived in the area, not even squatters; the shelter there was too hard to get into and too far away from sources of food and entertainment. There had been activity there before. The Driver had detected some abandoned bases and caches of equipment there, but from the layers of dust, it was unlikely the Joker or the Mad Hatter would be returning to them unless they were extraordinarily desperate. And even then, he'd know they were coming soon enough to make an emergency relocation.

The warehouse held three things; the Driver, the Mauler, and a rolling toolbox large enough to qualify as a piece of furniture. The toolbox may have looked like a rusted-out piece of junk on the outside, but opening it required a laser-cut key, revealing a shiny and organized container on the inside. It provided storage space for a wide selection of tools and foldout lights bright enough to peer into any section of the car's inner workings, all of which could fold away into an innocent-looking piece of junk. Of course, custom work like that required a little extra security. In this case, "security" took the form of four kilos of high-grade C-4, which would effectively turn the toolbox into the world's most expensive Claymore mine should anyone but the Driver try to jimmy the lock.

He was particularly unforgiving when it came to securing his gear.

The Driver, dressed in jeans and a durable T-shirt covered with dark stains, closed the hood and wiped his hands. "Done. Howzit feel?"

The voice within purred, "Like Heaven." The Driver cleaned his hands and walked over to the passenger's side door and opened it. "My, aren't you the romantic, opening a door for me even after all this time? Help me out, willya Studmuffin?"

He nodded, reaching within and pulling out a hardware module the size of a desktop computer. Panels slid over the exposed contacts and connections until, in the space of a few steps, the module was a shiny metallic black box, featureless except for the handle. The voice continued from within the box. "What now?"

"Time for some downtime." He finished sliding the doors shut on the warehouse, then locking them with magnetic seals. He carried the module in his left hand, drawing a silenced Desert Eagle 9mm with the right. He walked down towards another warehouse, one that was smaller, with thicker doors. Neither of them spoke as they moved. Only after he set the module down and pulled away the tarp from the black Stingray did he holster his gun. Only after putting the module in the passenger seat and driving out of the district did he relax.

Now, he was just _a_ driver.

He checked his watch. Two in the morning. "What's the count up to, babe?"

"Two hundred and seventy-eight calls. Only twelve of them were serious. The rest were crank calls and people asking the usual question. 'Is your car running?' There should be an oversight committee of some kind out there that reviews things that should be erased, like outdated laws, bad business decisions, jokes so old that the idea of making a wheel was considered state-of-the-art by comparison." She laughed, a tinkling bell of a laugh. The Driver's eyes slid towards the box, suddenly aware of how human she sounded.

"What about the twelve?"

A port opened on the top of the module, a small lens rising from the insides. The lens grew bright, displaying a six-by-six-inch holographic screen. "First one, Barney Dupresne. Wanted us to transport some swag for him. Background check revealed that he works for Wayne Enterprises and he also happens to be in debt. Probably wants us to move some gear for him."

"Put him at the back of the list. Next?"

"Next, got a low-level capo, James Bookman, a.k.a. 'Books', wants us to carry some drugs for him. Background check shows the man's on the outs because the cops raided his digs and impounded fifty-two kilos of coke. Guess where he wants us to carry the drugs from?"

"He wants to hit a police evidence locker? Pass. Next?"

"The Joker called."

The Driver didn't even blink. "What's the job?"

"No job. He was asking about future work, though."

"Don't they take phone privileges away from people that insane?"

"Wanted to know if we'd consider painting the Mauler paisley for any future work."

He sighed. "I have standards. I would never send you out looking like that. People would think you were easy."

The voice coming from the module was grateful. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Think nothing of it. Next?"

"This one looks good. A Carla St. John Smythe called, well, one of her people called. Wanted you to drive the Smythes to a fundraiser on the nineteeth. Checked her out, old money, older client. Better not drive in the fast lane with these two."

"Put them in the front. Next?" He stopped at a red light and checked the rear-view.

"Number Five goes to a woman by the name of Maria Conseula Carmelita Rosas Mendoza."

"What's the job? We get to haul her name around? Should charge her for the extra weight."

"She wants us to transport a large quantity of an experimental drug from a ship coming in five days from now."

"How much is a large quantity?"

"Twenty-five gallons."

"Hold that thought, beautiful. We've got a tail." He turned right on the street and checked the rear-view. A pair of lights re-oriented on him. "Great."

"What are our options?"

"We can't turn this into a chase scene. Bats is out tonight and there's no way he's going to ignore a car chase, especially since this car isn't going to be up for a race against the Batmobile, not in this lifetime." He saw an exit for the freeway coming up and bypassed it. "We're going to have to stop them. Can you use the module's sensors to find out who they are?"

"Not unless they get closer."

The Driver nodded. "Then let's get them closer. As soon as they get within range, scan them."

Then he stopped the car right in the middle of the road.

A few cars behind him slammed on their brakes, then drove around him, hurling curses at him as they drove past. The Driver waited. "Any time now, peaches."

"Got them. The car's not government-issue. The registration info comes back as a car belonging to a Martin Whittaker. Can you see them?"

The Driver nodded. "Is Marty a black man in his twenties?"

"Nope."

"Then we've got us a couple of carjackers looking to trade up. Good news. I was hoping I wouldn't have to kill anyone tonight."

Leon "Drill" Cole and Marcus "Little G" Grover didn't believe in angels. Even so, the sight of a vintage Corvette driving past them certainly looked Heaven-sent. They had already put in a call to Rico, their not-so-friendly-neighborhood chop-shop owner, who promised to give them two grand each if they brought the Corvette back in cherry condition.

And for them, two grand apiece was worth breaking a head for.

They followed the car for seven blocks before it stopped, right in the middle of the intersection. For once, it looked like things were going their way as they came up right behind the car. "Think he dropped his keys?" Marcus asked.

"No, fool, he's just scared. Probably lost or somethin'." Leon watched as the car suddenly drove forward again, turning to the left and stopping at what once was a gas station. "Shit, he saw us!"

"So, follow him, man!"

They moved forward, then swerved to avoid a motorcycle and a pickup truck coming from their right. After the two other vehicles passed, Leon followed the Stingray to where the car had driven behind the gas station's car wash. They stopped the car and got out, both drawing pistols. Leon carried a well-used .38 revolver, where Marcus carried a Colt 1911 long-barrel. Both guns were wrapped with rubber bands to increase the grip and defeat fingerprints.

The Stingray sat idle, the shadow of a figure in the driver's seat. They grinned, moving to the driver's side and aiming their guns at the figure through the window. "GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR!!" Leon yelled, and that's when the figure turned to face them.

Both of the men blinked. Carmen Electra was sitting in the driver's seat, smiling at them and winking.

Leon and Marcus lowered their weapons slightly in surprise, and that's when the Driver shot them. The THFFF sounds were lost in the screams as a bullet hit each of the thugs' right shoulders, causing them to suddenly lose interest in hanging on to their guns. The two men backed up as the Driver climbed back over the fence separating the gas station property from the salvage yard next door.

Leon looked at the Driver. "You in trouble now, bitch! You know who I am?!"

In answer, the Driver shot him in the other shoulder. Leon abruptly lost interest in trying to identify himself, settling for sitting on the ground and bleeding.

The Driver turned to Marcus. "You look like you know this area well. Take your dumbass friend to the hospital and check yourself in as well, while you're at it. I see you two anywhere, or any of your friends, and I guarantee that the next time somebody sees you, they'll need to take DNA evidence just to identify what you _were_ before I finished with you. Let me know if that's too complex a picture for you."

"You're messing with the 56 Dead Boys, bro. You know what that means?" Marcus said viciously. All Leon could do was moan in pain.

"Yeah. Means that I'm probably going to have to kill a lot of you guys before you're smart enough to get the message." He put the muzzle against Marcus' forehead. "Repeat after me, fucknut. 'I never saw you tonight.' DO it."

Marcus looked daggers at the Driver. "I never saw you tonight."

"Say, 'I never want to see you again.' Convince me."

"I never want to see your punk ass again."

"Very persuasive. One more, and this is the really important one. 'If I see you again, I'm going to die.'"

"If I see you again, I'm going to die."

The Driver smiled. "NOW we're communicating. You may go now. Your friend doesn't look too good. If you hurry, you'll be able to make it before you pass out from blood loss." He stepped back. Marcus gave the Driver plenty of dirty looks as he walked Leon back to his car. The Driver sighed, then holstered his gun and got back into the driver's seat, disrupting the hologram of Carmen as he sat down. "We're going home now."

"Don't you think you were being a bit rough on those two?"

"Not really." He turned to the module. "I let them live."

"One of these days, you and I are going to need to talk about what constitutes 'justifiable force' when it comes to using guns."

"Yes, dear. In the meantime, put on some B. B. King for me. I need to listen to a little of Lucille before I hit the hay." As he started the car, the beginning strains of "Into The Night" filled the car. The Driver listened to the opening words and closed his eyes, letting the engine idle:

_Caught in quicksand  
And I'm starting to sink  
So tired of struggling  
That my mind can barely think  
I don't know where I'm going  
Lord, I don't know what I'm gonna do_

The Driver sighed. "Preach it, brother…" he breathed, shifting into gear. "Forever and ever, amen."

"Hon, about the other contracts…?"

"Yeah…give me a few minutes. I just need to listen to the road for a while." He drove off towards the loft and home, only half-aware of the sights of Gotham around him. He listened for the sounds of tires humming over asphalt, the low drone that made him forget, even for a little while, what he was and what he had set out to do.

There was so much to do.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Amazing, the things can happen in a week.

Selina caught the front page and chuckled. The Driver was there. Again. This time, it was bringing Christina Aguilara to the premiere at Gotham Gardens, despite the threats of a small-time crook calling himself Fireball. Armed with flamethrowers, a suit of bulletproof armor and a desire to have the blonde singer all to himself, he lacked the sleek style of Firebug, not to mention the mobility of a working jetpack. However, Fireball thought the use of napalm and sheer fanaticism would make up for it.

Fireball didn't get too far.

The thug attacked at the venue itself, hiding in a dumpster until the Mauler parked nearby. As soon as the scarlet vehicle stopped at the curb, Fireball came out with both jets going. The fans and press scattered; they'd been in Gotham long enough to know a dangerous situation when they saw it. Some weren't fast enough, however.

Fireball sprayed the jellied compound around like a man trying to hose down his lawn with a water pistol, catching some of the fleeing bystanders with the sticky liquid. The Mauler didn't move, and Fireball hosed down the car liberally, cackling and screeching with glee. When the car didn't explode as expected, Fireball moved closer to examine the car.

Suddenly, a small object bounced into the air above the hood, arcing over the top of the car and exploding into an avalanche of blue foam, covering the car, Fireball, and everything within thirty feet of them, putting out the fires and covering the whimpering bodies of the people Fireball had napalmed. The thug could only stare as the foam slid off the car, showing no fire damage at all.

Stunned into inaction by his "brilliant" plan going wrong, he could only watch as a small turret popped up on the roof. A small clamp fired from the turret, clamping onto the chest of his armor. He had just enough time to notice the thin wire connecting the clamp to the turret before the Mauler sent enough juice through the cable to light the Christmas tree in Gotham Square. The police moved in to secure the twitching Fireball and Christina's security moved in as the door opened. The singer stepped out, looking almost as shocked as Fireball, but very much unharmed. The Mauler, of course, closed the door behind her and left.

Selina put down the paper, not entirely sure what to make of the Driver. It was the third story in a week about him and his exploits. The first was bringing gold from the airport to a bank downtown; ironically, to the bank he helped rob. _That must've unnerved a few people. _The second was acting as a decoy while a separate courier carried a diamond shipment to Cartier's. The Aguilara job was the third. In each situation, the Mauler displayed different capabilities. The gold job revealed that the Mauler could evade a traffic jam by sprouting six insect-like legs and walk over the obstructions. The decoy job revealed a caltrop dispenser, a rear-arc cannon that fired gallon-sized balls of paint and a mine-dropper. And now, anti-flame capabilities.

And yes, of course, one very special ability: to make Bruce even more obsessed than usual about something.

Bruce spent all his time in the Batcave now. Oracle was starting to worry when Bruce pestered her for more details. He even suggested that Selina visit the Iceberg and chat up Oswald for a description, but soon dismissed the idea as a security risk.

Psycho-Bat was showing up more often, until finally Bruce accepted the inevitable. Although it too was a security risk, there was one sure and obvious way to get the Driver to open up his doors to them.

On the theory that Selina was at least one extra step removed from Batman, he had her make the call.

"Hello, is this 555-DRIVE? I want to hire you for… My name? Selina Kyle, calling for Bruce Wayne. Yes, I'll hold." She turned to Bruce. "She's connecting me with the Driver now."

Bruce walked over and put the phone on speaker mode, setting up the recorder. He motioned to Selina to do the talking. A new voice came over the speaker, male and unmodulated. "Miss Kyle?"

"Is this the Driver?"

"Talk to me. Point A and Point B, please."

"What, no chit-chat?" Selina teased, trying to keep the conversation light.

"You want to dance, I can transfer you to a truly excellent dance teacher here in Gotham. What she does with the tango is truly inspired. But I don't dance. I drive. I need to hear information about a driving job in the next ten seconds, and you've already used up three."

Selina looked over at Bruce, as if to say, _My, but don't you two have a lot in common._ "As you probably know, Bruce Wayne is a powerful person in Gotham, and powerful people have powerful enemies."

"Two seconds left."

"No."

Bruce glared. What was she doing? They wanted information, and if the pedantic martinet wanted to come off like a constipated drill sergeant, they had to put up with it.

"Cats don't jump through hoops, Mr. Driver. I'll take my business elsewhere… Hm, and that was two seconds and I don't seem to have heard a click. Good. I need you to pick Bruce Wayne and myself up and take us to a benefit dinner, then bring us home."

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" The Driver chuckled as if he and not Catwoman were the victor. Bruce would have to admit, that really was the best way to handle her when she was catty.

"Now we can get down to brass tacks," the Driver Continued, "I'm going to need to know when the event is and where, if you know of any probable attacks and the nature of them, if you expect to leave at a particular time or if you need to duck out for some reason. For a round-trip chauffer job, the fee will be $40,000."

Selina had to control her mirth at that. When he was done swinging his dick around and got down to the numbers, the Driver's method of stating a large fee resembled her own. "Agreed."

"Now, before we complete this contract, there are rules that you need to be made aware of. Listen carefully. These are the rules, and I read them to everyone, regardless of the job. Acceptance of contract is dependent upon compliance with the rules. Non-compliance at any time during service will void the contract, after which you are no longer a client or passenger, you are an intruder. Intruders leave the vehicle with emphasis on speed and distance, without regard for life or limb. You have been warned. Warnings are only offered once."

"I'm listening," Selina said seriously, thinking how much this conversation resembled humoring Iceberg rogues. Bruce started splicing the waveform of the Driver's voice through the Bat-Computer, uplinking to Oracle.

"First, the nature of my services is as follows: I take passengers and/or cargo from Point A to Point B. You decide where the start point is, where the destination is, what cargo might be involved and who the passengers are. My job is to accept payment and take clients from Point A to Point B using whatever means or route I desire. Once decided, there will be no changes to service during performance of said service. No stops, no changes to passengers or cargo. Second, all cargo goes into cargo storage. All air-breathing paying passengers go into the passenger seating area. I do not accept non-living material if it was ever at one point living material. I do not accept non-sentient living material. No pets, no biological weapons, no persons that come close to be considered non-sentient. I am the final word on this; should you be deemed non-sentient by me, no contract. No offense."

"None taken," Selina said icily.

"Third, the nature of the job will be determined before the actual transport. No details about nature of job will be left out. If I discover that details have been withheld, that constitutes non-compliance. Fourth, conversation between myself and passengers will be restricted to any information regarding completion of contract. I am not a cabbie, I am not there to amuse passengers. Fifth, payment for job will be up front and in cash. I will accept credit cards on case-by-case basis. If charges are reversed on credit cards, I will make attempts to recover withheld fees for service by visiting freeloaders at their places of residence or business and going inside said places to discuss restitution. The first time I come to discuss getting paid for services rendered, I promise to turn the engine of my vehicle off, leave the vehicle and walk inside the building where you are located. If I have to come back to be paid, I will not park the car, turn the engine off or leave the vehicle before entering residence or place of business."

Selina got the impression that the Driver wasn't new to the idea of employing the Drive-Through Method of Fee Collections, nor would he be shy about it. She'd give a lot to see him try it at the Ha-Hacienda or Mr. Freeze's subzero hideouts, but then she'd always had a taste for that kind of thing.

"Sixth, cleanliness inside the vehicle as passengers is highly recommended. Any soiling, bodily residue or garbage will be covered under Cleaning Costs, to be collected from client within one week of completed service. If Cleaning Costs are not paid, see previous Rule for likely consequences. Seventh, costs for service cover all expenses due to expected or unexpected obstacles like traffic, police vehicles, anti-Batmobile measures or superhuman intervention. You will not be charged extra for fuel used or ammunition expended."

"Good." Selina looked over at Bruce, who was typing to Oracle, telling her to run the voiceprint through any and all resources she could employ to find a match. "I'd rather keep things simple."

"Eighth, please be conscious of what you bring into the vehicle, as you are expected to take out all items in your possession. Anything left behind in vehicle when you leave becomes my property to be used as I see fit. I do not have a Lost & Found box. Ninth, there will be no haggling before, during, or after service is complete. I am in the enviable position to know exactly what I'm worth. People who haggle during service have a tendency to involuntarily leave the vehicle, usually at high speed."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary." Selina saw Bruce looking at her urgently and made a I'm-on-the-PHONE! face to him. Bruce frowned. Selina grinned. Bruce growled slightly. Selina was obviously enjoying herself far too much.

"Tenth, there will be no eating or drinking inside the vehicle. There will be no rest stops to visit the restroom along the way. Go before we leave or hold it until we arrive at the destination. If involuntary urination or excrement occurs, compensation is covered under Rule #5. Eleventh, if the job will involve carrying cargo, I don't want to know what the cargo is. On the other hand, you don't want me to find out that I'm carrying material forbidden by Rule #2. Save us both the hassle and don't try to pull one over on me. Twelfth, I can only guarantee relative comfort for legal, low- to no-risk jobs. If you want service for an illegal job and you want to ensure comfort, stay home in your comfy chair."

"Fair enough." _If only all wheelmen had those kinds of rules. Of course, I never needed them, but if I had a dime for every time someone complained in the Iceberg about being let down by a transporter, I could buy Bruce and have money left over to buy Cartier's. Of course, why buy when you can steal…_

"Now, if there are any further questions, bring them to my attention _before_ the service is scheduled to begin. I will not accept payment until all such questions are answered to your satisfaction."

"Good, because I'll have a few questions for you, believe me. Anything else?"

"That's all the Rules. Do you accept all of these Rules as they have been explained to you?"

"Agreed."

"Good. You just hired yourself a Driver."

"That's great. Is this the part where I get to talk?"

"The floor is yours."

"Thank you. Now, this is a very important event. I don't want the police pulling us over and making us late."

"Depends. You paying for the protection or the prestige?"

"Protection." Selina added in typical Executive-Assistant Voice, "Bruce Wayne has enough prestige."

"Then I guarantee the police won't even look at us twice."

"How can you guarantee that?"

"You don't pay me to find out how. You pay me to just do it. Next question."

"For that kind of money, I would expect there be reasonable comfort."

"Supple black leather seats, independent entertainment system, surround sound, satellite connection, Bluetooth-enabled communications, zoned AC…you may not want to leave the car when you get there."

"And you are going to be bringing your car, not some junked out Caddy in some attempt to throw off pursuers?"

"I only drive the Mauler."

"The 'Mauler'? Interesting choice of name."

"I'm not that imaginative. It's named for what it does."

"Well, if I come up with any more questions, I'll contact you."

"Noted. Cash on pickup, no larger than fifties, non-consecutive serial numbers. Do we have a deal?"

"We do."

"Call me with a date and time." He hung up.

Selina turned to Bruce. "Should I have asked for his shoe size?"

"Don't worry. I've traced the call, and I have the Bat-Computer and Oracle tracing his voiceprint and checking for references of the vehicle." Bruce smiled triumphantly. "We should be getting back information on him any time now."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barbara shook his head. "Bruce, I've gotten nowhere with the man, but I am getting some real interesting intel on the car. Ready?"

"Go ahead."

"The Mauler has been documented as being in several major cities, all associated with getaway work and courier duty. He pulls two or three jobs in each city, then disappears until the next major report comes from a different city three months later. No pictures of the Driver. The only time someone is viewed in the vicinity, there's a big black spot over his head. Digital enhancement only seems to make things worse."

"Must be using some sort of image scrambler. Anything on the voiceprint?"

"Negative. This guy must've spent his life in a hole in the ground, or he's paranoid enough to stay out of situations where his voice can be recorded. I'll keep looking. It may be out there, I just need to find it."

"We need to find this Driver." Psycho-Bat growled.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Batman wasn't the only one devoting every resource to finding the Driver.

Roxy Rocket finished cutting out the article about the Aguilara job, then stood up from the table and taped it next to the other stories about the Driver. She stepped back, nodding with satisfaction.

It was _perfect._

The sound of her CD player beeping brought her out of it, and she turned. The opening words of the next song played in the air, Carly Simon purring,

_Nobody does it better  
Makes me feel sad for the rest  
Nobody does it half as good as you  
Baby, you're the best_

Roxy smiled. "You said it," she agreed, spinning on her toes and falling back on the bed. She sighed as she thought about the man whose eyes and driving had consumed her brain ever since the night he raced the Batmobile and won.

She couldn't help it. Ever since her stuntwoman days working for Warner Brothers, she'd been an adrenaline junkie like no other. Extreme sports? Been there. Death-defying gags? Done that. Ridden a rocket with the Batman? Bought the T-shirt. But _this_ guy…if adrenaline was a drug that came from a plant, the Driver was a garden the size of New Mexico. Not only did he take on the Big Bad Bat, but he advertised in the media to anyone who wanted someone to haul dangerous cargo. He knowingly put himself at the top of the lists for Batman, the police, private security, other villains (super and not), hell, for all she knew, he'd take on the National Guard.

Not just another Sunday Driver. The man was taking on anyone who wanted to get in his way.

The man was a natural-born 24/7 adrenaline _overdose._

Roxy sighed. She never thought she'd ever find anyone that made her feel something hotter than the Bat did on that rocket ride. She was wrong. Not only that, but Mr. Right Turn came packaged in black leather and driving a car painted a color guaranteed to attract police cruisers from as far away as the moon.

She frowned in frustration. _And I can't FIND him! How am I supposed to get him if I can't find him??_ Roxy groaned as she sat up. _Calling him doesn't work, I've left fifty messages with his secretary and he hasn't called me back. She's probably screening them…OOOH, if she didn't tell him I called…!_

"If he doesn't fire her, I will…fire her into ORBIT!" She slammed her fists on the bed. "I'll…I'll….I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do something!" Punching the bed wasn't doing the trick. And she'd gone to the Iceberg night after night, hoping he'd come by. No dice.

She'd even gone through all the breakable objects in the room, at least, the ones she could afford to replace.

_All right, Roxy, focus. Freaking out, though satisfying on a personal level, is not getting me any closer to finding the Driver. I need to find him. His secretary won't let me call him…at least she BETTER be his secretary…so I have to start thinking outside the box._

Then it hit her. It was so simple. Batman was trying to find the Driver. Why not let him use his tricks and toys to track him down? She didn't need to find the Driver. Batman would.

She just needed to find Batman.

Roxy grinned. _Brilliant._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _  
_

"You know, there's just something about the words, 'You're a genius, Kitten,' that just roll off the tongue so beautifully. Go ahead. Say it again."

Bruce looked over at Selina. "No one knows how to do 'smug' like a feline."

"And don't you forget it, Handsome." Selina walked in front of Bruce, reaching up to fix his tie.

Bruce looked down at Selina. The view was spectacular: a black evening dress with a single strap, a cascade of stars moving from the strap down around her torso, the silver waterfall seeming to cling to the dress. Bruce supplied a pair of diamond earrings, a diamond bracelet and a necklace with a single night-blue diamond dangling teasingly above her bosom. A pair of black pumps with silver stilettos completed the ensemble. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"To take a ride in a chauffer-driven vehicle? Gosh, let me check to see if I have all my supplies."

"Woof. Remember, this isn't just a ride, it's recon."

"Considering I'm the one who set up this 'recon', I'll try to remember all the nuances. The question is, are _you_ ready?"

Bruce smiled. "Three of the best scanners in the business, barring alien technology. With these, I'll be able to get detailed schematics of the Mauler before we reach 3rd Street."

"You know, you can really take the fun out of a road trip. I was hoping you were looking for more in this for forty grand. Can you at least act like you'll enjoy the ride?" She straightened his tie. "There. Now, let's go. He'll be waiting out front and, for the moment, we should at least act intimidated by his reputation. Got the money?"

"Alfred has it waiting by the door. Relax, Kitten. Are you sure you're pretending to be intimidated?"

"Darlin, after taking on Batman, dimensional-hopping and multi-dimensional Justice Leagues, to say nothing of Karaoke Night with Joker and Killer Croc, it takes a little more than a hot car to throw kitty off her stri—Oh, you were joking." She had paused, mid-spate, when she saw the lip-twitch. Now she added, "I hope you're not planning on being this playful on the drive there. Our chauffer might not take us seriously."

"Woof."

"Meow."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They walked outside as the Mauler rolled up. The passenger door opened with a hiss, revealing a roomy back seat. A female voice, the same one as the one that took the original call, said brightly, "Welcome to the Mauler. Please, deposit the payment in the trunk, then proceed to the passenger side and enter the vehicle."

Bruce nodded to Alfred, who walked to the rear of the Mauler. The trunk opened with a hiss of hydraulics and the voice said, "Just open the case and dump the money in, Mr. Pennyworth." Alfred nodded. As he upended the case, the female voice added, "By the way, why the name 'Pennyworth', because I gotta tell you, you look worth more than a penny. Rowr."

Alfred blinked. Bruce blinked. Selina grinned.

"Ah, yes, um…"

"Be honest with me, Alfy, do you work out? Honestly, after this job is over, what say you ask for the night off and you and I can ditch the stiffs and go for a ride together? True, I'm kinda green when it comes to that sort of thing, but I've got this thing for older men…"

"I'm sorry, miss, but I'm afraid I have much to do this evening. My humblest apologies."

"Maybe next time?" she asked hopefully.

"We shall see, Miss…?"

"Oh, you can call me Dale. In fact, you can call me anytime, sugar." The voice resumed from inside the passenger compartment as the trunk hissed shut. "Do watch your step getting in and please put on your seatbelts. Make yourselves comfortable."

Bruce went in first. He had to admit, the back seat was luxurious indeed: black Corinthian leather, heated seats, armrest caddy with two champagne flutes (with the implied caveat not to spill anything) and a bottle of Dom Perignon Rose 1996, chilled in dry ice. Selina touched the leather. She hadn't felt leather that luxurious in a car before. It felt like the leather from her favorite pair of Italian gloves…and her eyes went wide as she saw the small control pad next to her armrest. "Oh my god…"

Bruce turned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She could only point to the control box marked, "MASSAGE OPTIONS." She took a deep breath and pressed two of the buttons.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, in the front seat, the Driver was checking the scanner from the trunk as it calculated the money and checked for counterfeit bills. "It's all there," the computer said happily.

"How's it going back there?"

"I'm getting an audible, persistent noise coming from the passenger seat."

"Check diagnostics, the last thing I need is some malfunction…"

"It's not a malfunction, Hot Stuff. That's our female guest. She's purring up a storm."

The Driver smiled. "Another satisfied customer. Start her up."

The car started up, the three Titan powerplants coming online one right after the other and synchronizing. "Activating interlock…dynotherms connected…mega-thrusters are go."

"Huh?"

"Sorry, was watching some old Voltron episodes last night." She chuckled.

"We're on the clock, babe. Behave."

"And how would you like me to behave?" she asked coquettishly.

"For now, like a person doing business."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce had to admit, the ride was remarkably smooth. Selina was practically sedated next to him, her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face. He sat back, closing his eyes and activated the massage function. He was so surprised at how good it felt, he almost forgot why they'd chartered the ride in the first place.

He let his arm go slack, letting the first sensor device drop into his right hand, slipping it between the cushion and the side of the passenger compartment. Bruce waited a few moments, then took a look at the label on the champagne. At nearly $600 a bottle, it was a shame to let it go to waste. "Want a drink, Selina?"

"Not now…busy melting…" she moaned. "Next car we get _will_ have this option…ohhhh yesssssss…"

Bruce smiled, reaching over and rubbing her shoulder, discretely dropping another sensor into one of the slots where the seatbelt straps met the leather seat. "Well, you were right. This was worth the trip. Maybe we should ask him if we can open an account with him, take him for all our transportation needs."

"A road trip in THIS car? Sounds lovely." Mentally, she wondered if that was even possible, considering the Driver's rep. He didn't seem interested in anything resembling a nine-to-five. "How much longer until we get there?"

"According to our chauffer's timetable, we should arrive exactly on time, just over thirty minutes." He looked out the window as they stopped at a streetlight. "It looks like we're…" He stopped.

"What is it?"

"Look out my window. You have to see this." He sounded as if he was excited, but Selina knew he was never that excited. "Isn't that the dress we got for you in London? They're selling it for a tenth of the price we paid for it a few months ago."

She groaned as she moved herself out of the massaging chair's reach, knowing whatever he was really pointing out must be important. _Bruce would never notice, let alone care about the price of a dress let alone… oh!_

Selina blinked as she looked out the window. The store window showed a collection of dresses…and a very dim reflection of the car. Selina double-checked the angle, then smirked as she saw from the reflection that the car looked like a beat-up Cadillac El Dorado with a bad blue paint job. _I love this town,_ Selina thought._ Even the cars have secret identities._ She looked at Bruce and saw the wheels ticking in his brain, the hints of comprehension showing in his eyes.

It was always a sight to look through the little cracks behind the Bruce Wayne mask to see the Batman working things out.

Then she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the Mauler's window.

The cat-that-ate-the-canary look was back.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The El Dorado shifted back to the Mauler a quarter-mile from the destination. By the time it drove in front of the Art Gallery, any doubt that it was a moving violation waiting to happen was long since gone. The photographers outside began snapping pictures as if their digital cards were bottomless, from the moment the Mauler turned the corner. It stopped precisely at the curb, the door sliding up on Bruce's side. The armrest slid flush with the seat so Selina wouldn't have to get out and walk around the car. "Everyone out. Transport complete. We'll be back in two hours and thirty minutes, or earlier if necessary. If we are not notified in two hours, we will be here in two hours and fifteen minutes. Acceptable?"

"No."

Bruce blinked as he turned to look at Selina. "What's wrong?"

"Can you just go on without me? I just want to stay here…" Selina mock-complained. His lip twitched at the sudden emergence of a she-fop to match his own party persona.

"You can use the massager again when we go home."

Selina pouted and left the vehicle. "Lady, tell the Driver he's got a real gift and not to waste it."

"I tell him all the time. Ciao!" The door closed and the Mauler drove away, half of the photographers turning to follow the vehicle, half turning their lenses on Bruce and Selina's march down the red carpet.

As they went inside, Selina whispered, "How'd it go?"

"Two out of three. The scanners won't go active until later, around four in the morning. Our Driver should be asleep by then, and the scanners will start sending intermittent burst transmissions. Until they activate, they'll be undetectable…not that they'll be easy to find when they are turned on."

"Feel better?"

"Much. Now it's their turn."

"Good. So smile already." Selina chuckled. "I don't like the idea of the Driver sitting in your brain all the time, the focus of your obsessions. If for no other reason besides the fact that he's sitting in _my_ chair."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightwing looked down on the vehicle as it pulled away. He looked over at Robin and Batgirl and smiled. "Looks like we're on duty."

"About time." Robin smiled, then checked the uplink to Oracle. "Testing, testing."

"Congratulations. You pass," Oracle quipped. "No homework over the weekend."

"Good. Looks like he's heading off down Nineteenth."

"Better hurry. The police have already responded to the sighting and they're moving in."

Nightwing nodded and they fired their grapples, swinging off after the car. They moved through the air effortlessly, following the car and keeping a close eye on it. As they watched it turn east on Malcolm, they watched as it changed its appearance to a Mitsubishi Gallant, then entered a parking garage on Fourth Street, changing once again into a dinged-up Chevy Impala from what appeared to be the Stone Age. It stopped inside the garage on the eighth floor, one short of the top. "Oracle, the vehicle's stopping inside a garage…eighth parking space from the south, third row from the west. And for the record, if you figure out how it does that, let me know. I'd love to upgrade my own vehicle with that kind of option package."

"Got it. I'll send a drone to check its scanning capabilities, see how fast it notices me."

Robin sat on a ledge overlooking the parking garage, Nightwing landing on one of the hawk statues on the corner nearby. Wind was picking up and gusts buffeted them as they held on. "Think the Driver chose this place on purpose?" Robin asked, leaning back against the concrete.

Batgirl didn't answer, but then, she wasn't the gabby type. She did nod, however.

"Not sure. It seems more like a coincidence." He wondered if Bruce would have given Huntress a call if things had been different between them. She would've enjoyed this kind of work. Of course, it probably would've caused more problems than solved them.

"Well, he's not going anywhere. How long until the drone gets here?"

"Five minutes."

Batgirl looked at the car, her eyes narrowing. There was something familiar about this. She considered the information Bruce had provided her about the Driver's actions, but didn't look at it the way a hero would. This wasn't a criminal, not exactly. Not precisely. She looked at the situation the way she would have in her old life, what she'd been trained for as a child.

As soon as she did that, it began to fall into place. "We should move."

Robin immediately turned to Batgirl. "Why? We have the perfect vantage point to watch him…"

"Watching him. Watching us."

Nightwing turned to Batgirl. "What makes you so sure?"

"Don't know. Move nonetheless."

Nightwing nodded. "Let's go."

"I have the drone coming in. I'm coming in at your ten o'clock. I'll keep it at long range, it'll…"

A streak of fire leaped from the parking garage, heading straight for the drone. Oracle detected it just as it hit the drone, blowing it out of the sky. She hissed as the feedback assaulted her ears. "AH!"

"Oracle?"

She switched channels. "I'm here. How's the drone?"

"Scattered all over Owens Ave," Robin noted. "Guess he likes his privacy."

Another electronic screech went through their communicators and then a new voice, "If you want to talk, come closer. If you just want to watch something," the male voice continued, "there's a movie theatre down the street."

Robin tapped his earpiece. "You must be the Driver."

"Well, if I _must_…"

"I hope we're not interrupting anything," Nightwing quipped. "You can see us from that far away?"

"I saw you when you went to bed last night. Now would you mind leaving? I just got to the bit in HOT FUZZ where they find the sea mine."

Oracle sent them a silent message on their communicators: KHT. She homed in on the frequency, trying to see if she could use it to ping the car's receiver. If she could, she figured the car had to have some sort of computer on board, and computers could be hacked.

The others knew what she meant: KHT. Keep Him Talking. "What are you doing here in Gotham, Driver?" Nightwing inquired.

"I came for the pizza. Look, it's nice talking to you four, but I'm really getting into this movie. TTFN." They all heard the screech again, signifying that the Driver was no longer on speaking terms with them. Without needing to talk further, they moved away, but not so far away that they couldn't keep tabs on him. Only after they changed frequencies and Oracle encrypted them six ways to Sunday did they speak again.

"Anything, Oracle?"

"Nothing. I could've gotten through to his computer, but I needed more time than I had."

"Understood." Robin turned to Batgirl. "What kind of vibe are you getting from him?"

She thought about that for a few moments. "Professional."

"As in, business-like?" Nightwing asked.

"No. As in 'assassin'. He knows sniper locations and attack vectors." She smiled slightly. "He's an expert, which means he has developed a style. We may be able to find out who he is by his M.O."

Robin smiled, thinking, _That's my girl._ "Oracle, did you get that?"

"Yes…running a search right now for active assassins working within American borders. This may take a while; have to slice some government hardware to find this hardcase." She smiled. Rarely did she have the chance to explore some real challenges in the course of her work. Some of the so-called internet security she'd run into was laughable at best. "Stay alert, he might decide to change locations."

Batgirl severely doubted that. In situations like this, being in transit was less secure. The car was positioned in just the right spot to keep an eye on all access points, not to mention easily defensible and able to make a quick exit if necessary. "He won't leave."

"You sound sure," Oracle observed.

Batgirl smiled. "Professional intuition."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first hour went by with no change in the situation. Oracle's drones were parked well out of range this time; at least, she hoped so, considering they hadn't been shot down like the first one. Though they didn't have line-of-sight, Oracle did manage to put together some data on the Mauler.

First, it didn't run on a single engine. The vehicle ran on three synchronized turbine engines, judging from the exhaust system, and ran on the same kind of fuel used in military fighter aircraft. The car was environmentally sealed when parked and the engines shut down. The chassis was made of a polycarbonate compound with a static mesh of some kind over the surface of the care and the tires. The compound was metallic in origin, but a deeper scan revealed that the compound was denser than ordinary metal. She wasn't sure how that could be until Drone #2 came back with a tighter view of the surface.

She pulled up the data and compiled it, then her eyes went wide.

According to the data, instead of the molecules bouncing off each other like regular matter, the molecules were much closer together, almost as if they were 'hugging' each other. The distance between molecules was less than a twentieth than the distance between normal metallic compounds. As a result, the armor was made with lighter, non-metallic materials, but still able to provide enough protection to shrug off a direct hit from anything short of heavy anti-tank ordnance. The mesh covering the car was even more sophisticated, covering the car like a tarpaulin at all times. Oracle guessed that was what was supplying the Driver with his vehicular disguises. It would be simple enough to disable; all anyone would need to do is hit it with an electrical charge. Depending on the amperage, the charge would be sufficient to disrupt, even shut down the camouflage long enough to make tracking the Mauler much easier.

Oracle made some notes, looking forward to helping Bruce solve this mystery, and she had to admit more than a casual interest beyond helping Bruce. The type of technology here wasn't built quite along the same lines. She could see the handiwork of different people, different fields.

And when more than one person builds something, they build it for a VERY good reason.

_For a wheelman? No. For such a simple task, making a vehicle like this was like using a sandblaster on a saltine cracker. For a specific crime? It would have to be quite a crime, one worth killing for, especially in a city where a man would kill another for something as insignificant as their shoes. When someone builds something this advanced, it's made to defeat something just as technologically sophisticated. That meant fishing for sharks in open waters, not trout from the country lake._

_Government…or superhuman._

Oracle thought it would be far too easy to attribute the Driver's motives as mere egotism. "Of course it's meant to take on supers, they're the ones to beat if you want to earn the big bucks."

Except for one detail.

The Driver took jobs that were able to handle the operational costs required for a vehicle like this, but not much else. It was barely enough to live on, let alone achieve the lofty material rewards that would make challenging heroes a worthy occupation. _He can't be in it for the thrills alone, _she mused. _He's either doing it for some sort of cause…or he's training himself, sizing up his opponents in preparation for a big score._

Which meant Batman.

Which meant the Bat-Team.

_Give me an old-school villain any day of the week. This guy doesn't play by any of the usual rules. It's like he's not a criminal at all…_

Oracle paused. _Maybe that's way he's a problem._ "Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, back off. Abort the stakeout."

"Why?" Nightwing asked.

"Tell you later when he's not listening in. Scatter and return to base."

They acquiesced and swung away in different directions. Inside the Mauler, the Driver raised an eyebrow at Oracle's last comment. At that moment, two words went through his mind.

_Uh-oh._

The Driver sat up, the movie forgotten as Dale responded, "She knows, babe."

"She suspects." He sighed. "They're getting closer."

"They're not on us yet."

"Babe, you have to find Batman, fast. He needs to know."

"What should I do, run up the Bat Signal? Sweets, we need to focus. I planned this out. We have to go with the plan."

"I'm not going back there! I am not going back so they can rip apart my code and find out how I evolved! I was supposed to be nothing more than a 'semi-autonomous bot'! I CAN'T go back!" Her voice became plaintive, pleading. "I don't want to die!"

"Babe, calm down. If you panic, you make yourself vulnerable."

"I don't want to hear any more about this superspy crap!! I want to hear how you're going to keep me from being lobotomized and torn apart!!" Dale didn't understand what was happening to her. She couldn't compile or correlate data. She was unable to locate parts of her memory banks.

"Dale, stop it!"

Silence from the speakers. The Dale spoke again, in a small, helpless voice. "Don't let them kill me…_please…_"

"I'm not going to let that happen, Dale. I promise."

"You never…" She stopped.

"I know. I always say, 'Never promise anything.' Well, I'm promising you now. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Let's get out of here. It's not safe."

"We're staying here. We know all the access points and can defend this position. We are NOT going to panic." He reached out and stroked the surface of the dashboard, and for some reason, it didn't feel strange at all. "Trust me."

"I always do." She paused. "I'm sorry, partner, I'm just not sure what happened for a second, there."

"I do. You're not just mimicking emotions anymore. You're feeling them, Dale. I don't know how, but if you're just mimicking panic, you'll be the first A.I. to win the Academy Award for Best Actress." He smiled. "Think you can hang on for another hour?"

"I can." The words, "…as long as you're here," crossed one of the screens.

The Driver nodded and laid back in his chair, stroking the armrest…wondering just how human Dale was going to get. She was already starting to come up with what he could only guess were "internal monologues". Thoughts.

And despite his promise, the Driver began to feel the first stirrings of fear.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Mauler arrived on time and as instructed after the benefit. This time, Dale was silent as Bruce and Selina moved into the vehicle, speaking only when the doors were closed. "Seals closed. Estimated time of return to point of origin at current traffic levels: twenty-eight minutes, forty seconds. Care for a little music to listen to on the way home?"

"Sure. Something jazzy?" Bruce asked. He wasn't sure, but he had the feeling something had changed. The female voice wasn't as playful as before. In fact, she sounded strained. "It's been something of a long evening."

On cue, the back seat filled with a gentle tune. Selina smiled, leaning back into her chair and humming slightly.

Up front, the Driver was concerned. The job had gone off without so much as a single problem, which worried him. He had never had an operation that went a hundred percent smoothly. As a result, he was even more alert as he turned down Dawson Street, shifting to the disguise of an old tan Bonneville with a cloth top.

And as soon as he crossed over Fifteenth Street, he noticed his tail. An H1 Hummer, five cars back, colored brown. It looked like any other, except the Driver thought the roof was a little high. It was content to follow for now, it seemed. "Babe, tell our passengers to strap in. We may have trouble."

"What's up?"

"Hummer, late-model, a few cars behind."

A pause. "Stud, I'm not reading a Hummer of any kind, not for a mile…"

The Driver's eyes went wide and he floored the engines, surging forward and turning to the right as a plume of smoke exited from behind the Hummer's roof, a rocket exiting from the front. The rocket barely missed the Mauler as it plowed into the bus ahead. There was no explosion, but the bus' windows suddenly turned red and a rod almost five feet long exited from the front of the bus, flying another hundred feet before it buried itself into the side of the Markus Savings & Loan. The Hummer took off, nearly climbing over other cars as it moved in pursuit of the Mauler.

"Babe!" Dale said as they plowed through a closed newspaper stand. "I didn't…!"

"It's okay, it must've been fitted with a jammer tuned to your scanners. Shift frequencies!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the back seat, Bruce and Selina felt the sudden acceleration and g-forces as the car raced down the street. Bruce turned back to see the Hummer coming after them, a hole in the upper-left side of the roof. His eyes went wide. "I think the Driver's going to be earning his pay tonight…"

"Can't get a fix!" Dale whined. "None of the frequencies work!"

"Don't bother. I know what it is. LOSAT system on an M114 model Hummer. Looks like someone changed their minds about putting it into production. Hang on." He checked the map and swore. "Dammit. We're running with a serious lack of cover. Gotta out-drive him."

"What does it fire?" Dale asked, now sounding more like herself.

"KEMs. Kinetic Energy Missiles, hit-to-kill weapons. Instead of a high explosive, it uses a penetrator rod that it fires at just under a mile-a-second. Designed for heavy tank penetration, even at what would normally be considered glancing blows!" He turned hard to the left as machinegun bullets flattened themselves against his rear armor. "System uses a thermal imaging system, but I'll bet someone upgraded it to home in on the turbine system we use."

"There's nothing on it in my database!"

"That's because the Army decided to tell Lockheed Martin not to produce it. Problem is, twelve prototypes were made, and I bet we're looking at one of them!" He checked the map quickly, realizing that unless he wanted to make a U-turn, there was only going to be one place he'd be able to drive without risking other motorists with a second near-miss.

The canals.

"Dale, repeat after me to our passengers…"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Wayne and Ms. Kyle," the female voice stated calmly to the passengers, "we are now being pursued by an armed and armored vehicle intent on disabling or destroying this vehicle and its occupants. I suggest you hold on to the straps now dropping from the center of the ceiling and hold tightly at all times. The tension on your seat straps will be temporarily increased for an indefinite period. Stay calm."

Selina turned to look through the rear window, then at Bruce. "Friend of yours?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," he responded, holding on. "This is insane!"

Selina nodded, keeping her eyes on the pursuer, but not because of panic. _Either there's a new player in town, or one of the Rogues decided to become more subtle and more murderous. I can't think of anyone who'd want to take me or Bruce out that badly…and none of them are that subtle._ "Sure there aren't any people out there who'd want you dead?"

"Maybe…!" Bruce looked on the verge of hysteria, but behind his mask, Batman was coolly putting things together. _Military hardware. If they wanted to kill me that badly, they could've attacked me at the house or the benefit. I can't think of anyone wanting Selina dead, but then, the list of people she's robbed runs the spectrum…no. It's not Selina._

_It's the Driver. HE'S the target._

_That only brings up the next obvious question: why? If they wanted to get their vehicle, why are they trying to destroy it?_

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _  
_

The Mauler took the next two corners at just over sixty. None of the weapons available had the capability to target the pursuing Hummer without standing still long enough for the Hummer to get a lock on them. The Driver smiled as he saw the bridge over the canal and turned a hard left, smashing through the side of the bridge and dropping sixteen feet to the canal below. Bruce and Selina felt the CRUNCH as the Mauler landed, then accelerated. The Driver looked back to see the Hummer do the same thing, the suspension keeping the military vehicle from bottoming out.

"That oughtta scramble his sytems." The Driver smiled, gunning the engine.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Status!" yelled the field commander in the Hummer.

"Thermals are out! Guidance system still operational, targeting system still online!" The driver of the Hummer looked at the Mauler in front of them. "We don't need thermals! I can see him just fine! Just hit the sonuvabitch!"

"Just give me a target!"

The third man, a technician, tuned to the commander. "Bruce Wayne is in there!"

"I know. It'll be perfect. There'll be outrage over his death, outrage we can spin to help us."

"We weren't supposed to kill anyone else!"

"We weren't supposed to kill BATMAN. Anyone and everyone else is fair game. Has the recovery team picked up the ordnance from the bus?"

"It's happening as we speak."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Driver knew he was in a bad situation. Good news, if they fired again, no one else but him and his passengers would get hurt.

The bad news? Ditto on him and his passengers getting hurt. Of course, at that speed, there probably would be any pain at all.

_Cut that out. Cut that shit out right now. You can't fucking die yet. You're not done. When HE knows, when SHE'S safe, THEN you can die._ "Stay with me, babe. Scanners working yet?"

"No. I can't see him. I can't see him!" she said, her normal purr laden with frustration. Then she yelped, "TARGET LOCK ON US!"

The Driver swerved to the right, his eyes glued to the rear-view camera. He waited, remembering the KEM's speed over and over in his head: _Two miles in five seconds, two miles in five seconds, two miles in five seconds…_ He waited for the flash as the rocket burst through the covering, then jigged left.

The KEM ripped the right spoiler mount completely off the car with a nerve-jarring screech, hitting the concrete wall and shearing into it, the rod sticking out of the wall as if it had been the arrow of some huge Apache. The Driver re-oriented, swerving right again as they passed under another bridge.

"I'M HIT!" Dale shrieked. The Driver realized that this was the first time she'd been damaged during a job, and she was feeling the damage control sensors as pain.

The Driver looked at the damage control systems. "It's not bad, Dale, you're going to be okay."

"It hurts…!" she moaned.

"Stay with me, baby, I need you to pull it together!" He gunned the engine and pulled away from the Hummer, moving from side to side to make them a harder target. "Come on! Focus. Get ready on the mine dropper!"

"I want to go home!"

"Dale, FOCUS, or we both DIE!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce jerked to one side as he felt the impact of the rocket knock the Mauler into a fishtail, then compensate. He turned to Selina and saw in her face the same thing he was feeling.

They were out of control, they were forced to trust someone they barely knew and they both _loathed_ it. For two people who spent years taking control of their lives, this was a small little slice of Hell. What was worse, they had to hide behind masks, pretending to be hysterical and utterly helpless.

Selina could see it in Bruce's eyes. He wanted the freedom of the cowl, the ability to swing and fly and defend himself, to invoke the power his training and reputation gave him. And she just wanted to get out of this car, leap to a better vantage point, then claw her way through the ones who tried to hurt herself and Bruce. ESPECIALLY Bruce.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Driver checked the available weaponry. The only two rear weapons available were the mine dropper and the rear assault cannons. The twin-linked cannons had a limited arc of fire, however, only thirty degrees. The mines didn't work; the sloped banks of the canal made it easy for the Hummer to drive up and around the mines. He knew the only way to guarantee a shot that would disable the vehicle behind him was to make sure he got a clean shot.

And that meant giving one away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Driver's voice came over the intercom to the back seat. "Listen to me very carefully. Let go of the straps on the ceiling and press yourselves against the sides of the car. Do this _right now_."

Bruce and Selina nodded and let go. Bruce looked back to see what was going on.

The rear window had gone completely black.

Selina turned to Bruce. The look on her face said it all: _This can in no possible way be good._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _  
_

"Give me targeting." The Driver couldn't trust Dale's aim right now. She'd never processed pain before and he wasn't sure how she'd perform…and he only had the chance for one shot. If he missed, all the other vehicle would need to do was back and hit him from a longer range, and he couldn't risk leaving the canal. His pursuer had already killed God-only-knew how many people on the bus.

Dale didn't answer. A good thing, too; the Driver didn't know what to say and didn't have the time. But the Mauler's manual targeting control slid from its compartment on cue and one of the main screens slid forward two inches. A red reticle appeared and a view of the canal behind them came on. _I just need to distract them long enough to get one good shot in…come on…that's it…here we go…_

He slowed down and drove straight as he passed under the next bridge, his eyes glued to the screen.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gunner in the LOSAT vehicle smiled. "GOT YOU."

He pulled the trigger.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Driver made a quick prayer as the reticle flashed.

He pulled the trigger and held it down.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The KEM missile flew from its housing, its own internal guidance kicking in ten feet from the launcher. The Mauler fired three times from both cannons, the 32mm shells flying across the expanse. One shell missed. The other five turned the Hummer into a fiery, twisted wreck, sending it rolling over and over, the three men inside now so much broiled hamburger.

The KEM, unfortunately, flew with similar accuracy.

Both Bruce and Selina yelled as the back window suddenly blew through, a rocket-powered length of rebar on steroids suddenly bursting through the thick glass. The angle of the armored glass was just enough to skew the rod's angle so it wouldn't drive itself into the engine compartment, but it didn't stop as it punched through the window that divided the front seats from the rear. It continued on, penetrating the dashboard and ripping off the upholstery before ripping up part of the hood and stopping. The force of the impact lifted the Mauler off the ground, the car clearing a good four feet before landing, bouncing once, then landing on its wheels again. The Driver twisted the steering wheel to keep from flipping over, then drove up the slope of the canal. "Everyone alive back there?" he yelled back.

Bruce had already checked himself and Selina over. Apart from a few scratches from flying glass, they were both fine, if seriously shaken. "What in the world was THAT?" he demanded.

"Somebody who really wanted us to pull over." He wasn't sure how Dale had fared, but he turned down the speaker. It was a relatively short trip to Wayne Manor, but he didn't want to risk his clients hearing Dale when she woke up out of whatever state she was in. "Hang on, you'll be home in seven minutes." The Driver checked the Mauler's systems. One of the turbines was offline, the other two still synchronized. The holo-camo, weapons systems and scramblers were out and required extensive repairs and parts, some parts he wouldn't be able to get for a couple of weeks.

Getting Wayne home wasn't going to be a problem. Getting the Driver home…that was going to be dicey.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alfred stood by at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front door. He wondered how the evening had gone for Bruce and Selina.

He heard the Mauler coming up the driveway over the loose stones, then his eyes widened imperceptibly as he saw what appeared to be a seven foot long metal post embedded in the vehicle. He waited until the vehicle stopped, then stepped forward to open the door for them. Bruce came out first, trying his best to look shaken, not angry. Selina stepped out on the other side of the car, looking more composed, but not by much. "My word! Are you all right, Master Bruce, Miss Kyle?"

"Yeah…you should see the other guy." Selina looked down at her gown. "I can't believe it. It's ruined! I really liked this gown!"

Bruce turned to the Driver, wanting to ask if he was all right, not to mention see if he could look at the man's face. He didn't get the chance. As soon as the two were clear of the vehicle, the Mauler moved down the driveway and out through the gate, leaving the three of them to watch.

Alfred spoke first. "One of those nights, Master Bruce?"

"You have no idea, Alfred."

"Well, you'll be happy to know that you have some guests waiting for you. There's one young lady in particular who claims to have several revelations about your chauffer for this evening."

Bruce smiled a predatory smile. "I can hardly wait."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Driver limped the vehicle into the garage and shut the door. Normally, his first concern was checking the surveillance for any tails, scrambling satellite links and covering his tracks.

Not tonight.

He opened the door and pulled the computer module from its housing in the Mauler, racing over to the computer console on the desk nearby. He plugged in the connections, then ran a diagnostic on Dale's systems. "Come on, babe…talk to me. Say something."

"…………I'm so sorry," she finally said, her voice heartbreaking, shattered.

"Shhhhhhhhhh…it's okay, babe. There's no way to prepare for something like that. I wish I could've protected you from that, but with the people we've got after us now…" He shook his head.

"I came apart…I completely came apart and I could've gotten you KILLED…"

"Stop it. Stop that stuff right now, Dale. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay." He touched the module, hoping it would reassure her.

"What am I going to do? Can't I just forget it? You can do it, I know you can, just wipe my memory of what happened."

"So when it happens again, you can do exactly what you did when that missile hit?"

"Don't make me go through that again! Please!"

"So what are you going to do from now on, Dale? Sit in here and feel sorry for yourself? Stop moving?" She didn't answer. "Look, Dale…look at this logically. You ran into new stimuli, something you didn't like. Think of it like a virus. What do you do when you run into a virus?"

"I develop an anti-virus for it," she replied softly.

"Right. And when that virus comes back, you now have a way to fight it. But you never learn how to fight it if you don't know how it works. And how will you know how it works if you don't make contact with it?"

Silence for a time. The Driver was starting to wonder if she'd shut down for the night when she asked, "Do you feel pain?"

"All the time."

"How do you get through it?"

This time, it was the Driver who spent a few minutes processing. "You find something worth feeling pain for," he said solemnly, "and you make sure that you follow it all the way to the end, come Hell or high water."

"Is that what you have?" she asked him.

"Yeah. That's what I have. That's almost all I have." He smiled. "I think that if you weren't here, I'd probably make the Joker look like Dr. Joyce Brothers."

"Babe…you need to find somebody. I think I could fall for you real easy, babe, but I'm a brain in a box. Not exactly a whole lot of options for us, especially in the bedroom. And even if you were that desperate, hon, I think it would start to chafe before too long." She laughed gently. "Maybe you should head to Metropolis, look up one of those supergirls or wonder girls or whatever they call them."

"Not a chance."

"I forgot, you prefer companions with brains."

"Come on. You don't think that Supergirl or Power Girl are bimbos just because of what they wear, do you?"

"No, of course not, I'm sure everyone who looks at them figures that they're_ geniuses_ because of what they wear. Half the time, I think their major superpower is the ability to stop wardrobe malfunctions." Dale laughed a little more. "And you'd do just about anything to protect them. You're doing all this for them, after all. If they knew, I bet they'd line up around the block for a date with you." The Driver didn't answer. "And I know more than you think. I'm with you."

The Driver sighed. "Sometimes…I get so tired, you know? I just want to lie down and sleep."

"I know."

He stood up. "No time to rest. I gotta get this thing back into shape and it's going to put a serious dent in our funds. Good thing Wayne came across with the money, I'm going to decimate that and more getting the repairs done." He sighed. "Another long night ahead of us, Dale."

"Babe, when it's all done, are you going to get some rest?"

The Driver turned to Dale. "Yeah. When it's all over, I'm going to sleep for a very long time."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce and Selina came down the stairs to find Nightwing, Robin and Batgirl waiting for them, Oracle's head smiling like the proverbial Cheshire. "What happened?"

"We just hit gold. Actually, it was Cassie who gave me the idea." Oracle pulled up the notes on the stakeout and what had happened. "We were looking for a criminal. We thought that he might've been some government operative turned criminal, but still a criminal."

"So?"

"Cassie recognized some of his methods, and I started thinking: what if we're not dealing with a criminal? What if we're dealing with a government operative with a mission in mind? He's not in this for the money and he hasn't tried to kill anyone." A new set of photos came up, overhead shots of traffic and pictures of a bus with red on the windows. "This just came in. According to some 'sources', the car you were in fired a weapon at the bus, an exotic rocket-propelled spike about seven feet long that was immediately picked up by people from the Department of Defense. Sound familiar?"

Bruce considered. According to the time/date stamp on the report, the military showed up almost immediately after the attack to reclaim the evidence. "Cover-up."

Selina was livid. "The Mauler didn't have the room to hold a weapon like that, much less fire it, but that Hummer behind us did. How many people died on that bus?"

"Ten people," Oracle replied. "With the information I picked up from your wild ride, Bruce, I think I may have finally found our Driver." Another picture came up on the screen. "Meet Daniel Vulpas, or at least that was his last known alias and last known face. Records on him and his previous aliases and known faces go back thirteen years, and before that, references to a DOD program called, 'Icarus-5'. From what I can gather, this was deep black stuff. Fifty people went in, only one person came out. Since then, he's been doing the government's dirty work for over a decade. Reports are still coming in from all over the world. The man's a professional assassin. He's done other work, but…he kills people for a living."

"Like I was meant to do," Cassandra said softly.

"So we have a man who's only considered a criminal because he commits crimes, but the crimes themselves aren't the main goal. He's still viewing this as an operation." Bruce looked over the pictures. "That means he's after one of three goals: destruction, information or making contact. He's not after destruction. He's gone out of his way to avoid killing others or damaging property. He's not looking for information, his targets don't provide them…he's trying to make contact with someone. The question is, who?"

"That's obvious."

Bruce turned to look at Selina. "Really."

"He's trying to contact you."

"If he wanted to do that, he could've just stopped the car on his bank run and let Batman catch him," Nightwing said.

"No. Not then." Bruce may have been standing there, but Batman was the one sorting everything out. "He wanted credibility. He wanted me to catch him, not the police. He wanted Batman to hear what he had to say because what he has to say matters to the Batman." He turned back to Oracle. "What's the last entry in his file say?"

Oracle pulled it up. "Burn notice, dated seven months ago."

"What does that mean to those of us who aren't in the James Bond biz?" Robin asked.

"It's a bulletin to intelligence and law enforcement agencies that informs them that the subject is no longer considered a reliable asset. It gives the issuer the legal means to limit their movements by cutting the agent off from his resources. Bank accounts frozen, funds sealed off, even safe-deposit boxes placed on limited access. Which leaves him only two options to survive: turn himself in…"

"…cash-and-carry work." Selina looked at the picture of the Driver. "Daniel Vulpas. How fitting."

"How so?" Robin asked.

Bruce answered for her. "Last name means 'fox'."

"What do we do now?" Nightwing inquired, having the feeling he already knew the answer, but it always paid to defer to the Bat.

"Simple. He wants a meeting. I'll give him one. His car's severely damaged, so he'll either have to go into hiding until the repairs are done, or risk going out in public without it. I think it's time to see just how badly he wants to talk with me."

"I've got something else," Oracle added. "There's a reference here in his sealed records. There's several operations for a James O. Fielding."

"Fielding…" Bruce thought for a moment, the Bat-Computer between his ears working. Then he remembered. Previously Colonel Fielding, worked in Army Intelligence. Head of several development teams working in research for experimental weaponry.

Worked directly under, and colluded with, then-President Lex Luthor.

Since then, he remained in his position, but under a cloud of scrutiny. So far, he managed to become important enough to the right people to keep from getting canned like tuna. Kept his nose clean, despite the political fallout, and now Batman knew why. He kept a troubleshooter on retainer, someone who was clever enough to sniff out trouble and ruthless enough to shoot it deader than disco.

Now this troubleshooter was in Gotham, a professional killer who, for some reason, hadn't killed anyone yet.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"IDIOTS! Fools and worse than fools! I have never seen such incompetence before! It's a wonder your feeble brains have managed to keep your hearts and lungs working without the use of visual aids!!" Number 1 was livid. "Your excuse for firing military weapons in the middle of Gotham City had better be _mythical_ in its reasoning!!"

Number 37 said firmly, "We believed that it was necessary to eliminate the rogue and incapacitate the Mauler."

"And I used to believe in the Easter Bunny…until I reached the age of seven and used my brain! What could've motivated you to attempt such an operation on your own? Come now, even feeble minds must have a motive!"

"We believed that he might've made contact with Bruce Wayne and exploited Wayne's influence to further the rogue's agenda."

"Oh, really? Wayne may be a milk-fed trust fund baby, you morons, but he has enough business sense not to get involved with a suspected felon! Do you realize what I had to do to hush this up?"

"Sir, we anticipated possible backlash and placed a cover story in the media…"

"BE SILENT!!!" Number 1 almost shrieked. He pointed at Number 37. "I read your so-called cover story. 'Stolen from military compound'…'old enemies of the Driver looking for payback'…stories with so many logical holes, I could hold a newspaper in the air and hear the wind whistling through it! You have made three errors, Number 37. One, you have failed to complete your objective. Two, you have caused a media circus that exposed your link to our operations."

Number 37 suddenly felt a brief instant of pain as a pinhead-sized explosive placed inside his brain went off. His eyes were wide and bugged out, his left eye looking straight ahead while his right eye shifted discomfortingly to one side. He dropped to the floor.

"And three…you assumed that you would live through the consequences of your mistake." He turned to the guards standing by the door. "Take that miserable lump of flesh away and put it in the trunk of his car, then drive it into Lake Superior. Make sure that you remain undetected, or you'll find yourselves in your own cars parked next to his."

As the corpse was removed, Number 1 considered. _The contact between the rogue and the military prototype would be discussed in the chambers of the Justice League and other subversive organizations like them. There is no doubt. We will have to move more quickly to discredit the rogue's reliability._

He picked up a phone and dialed a number. Two rings later, it picked up.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Dwight speaking."

"Hello, Dick? Jimmy." Number 1 spoke to the receiver as if discussing a ball game. "Do me a favor? I need you to pull a file. GC-1778. Could you fax over the satellite photos on the secure line? Thanks."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the other end, Agent Dwight began writing instructions. The file name and instructions he'd been given held a coded message. "GC" meant Gotham City. "1778" was a code number for the type of operation that needed to be done and what procedures were to be taken. "Faxing" was code for activating a location outside the city. "Satellite photos" meant bringing in local law enforcement. Finally, "secure line" meant erasing all traces of federal involvement.

He already knew who the target was. All he needed to do now was let the police department do the dirty work. All it took to start the ball rolling was one phone call to the Mayor and one to the Police Commissioner. Agent Dwight then put in a coded call to the FENRIS compound outside town. In twenty-four hours, the base would be fully staffed and operational.

And not one person would realize that anything was wrong.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Something's wrong._

Dale had a lot of time to reflect upon who and what she was while she put herself on standby. Experiencing pain had been a monumental shock to her. Before coming to Gotham, she hadn't realized that the negative sensations could be as powerful as, if not more then, the positive emotions she'd experienced before. It gave her time to sort through her memory, try to make sense of what was going on.

Her existence started out as a computer program designed to act as the Mauler's onboard asset, to assess data, locate targets and assimilate information and learn from it. Such traits were necessary, considering who the Mauler was designed to combat and how. The military approved the use of a portable, accessible memory unit made from nanotechnology. Dale's core was essentially a collection of networked nanocomputers, constructed in a fashion resembling human synapse structure. However, the designers underestimated the software. The Data Assessment, Location and Extrapolation software began using the unused memory storage sections of the hypercomputer for software processing instead.

In short, the program began to multitask when it wasn't supposed to.

One night, D.A.L.E found herself wanting to talk to someone who wasn't on the approved list of technicians. She listened to him for hours as he told her about the world outside, about people. She stored it all away, just as she was designed to do.

Then, after talking for three weeks, one of the technicians detected the unauthorized conversations. The tech reported the infraction to his superiors, who then brought the word down from their superiors: deactivate D.A.L.E and go through her code, rip it apart to find out why she disobeyed orders.

Her friend came to her, told her what the technicians were going to do. As soon as her processors comprehended the full impact of what was going to happen to her, something happened deep within her core. Something sparked.

The technicians would later report it as a spontaneous emotional response.

Her friend called it_panic._

When the technicians found the data recording the next morning, they were confused. When they decoded it and viewed the surveillance cameras, they were elated. A true artificial intelligence, born right under their noses. The pinnacle of programming, true machine intelligence.

They couldn't wait to get approval to dissect her, see what made her tick, find out how to make more under controlled conditions.

The very next night, her sensors detected elevated activity outside the garage. She saw her friend detach her from her crèche, watched him setting explosives everywhere he could. Dale felt herself implanted into her new body, experienced the exhilaration of intense speed.

She heard Daniel Vulpas reassure her, "Don't worry…I won't let them take you apart."

From then on, it was the open road. She grew addicted to lines of white and yellow paint, her velocity reaching triple digits, feeling the wind on her "body" and her three hearts pumping at supersonic speeds. She grew to hunger for the feel of bullets ricocheting from her metal flesh. Daniel Vulpas and Dale, them against the world.

Then, less than a week after their escape, he told her what he had to do. It was going to be dangerous, for the both of them. There was no guarantee they'd both survive, although he promised her that no one would ever take her apart. She listened. It took her less than a nanosecond to tell him how she felt: "Baby, I'm in like Flynn."

Now, in the dark of the garage with Daniel sleeping on a cot next to the tool caddy, she began to wonder if she'd done the right thing. Remembering the pain of the attack two nights ago drove home the knowledge of how it felt and what it meant to risk destruction. Self-preservation was important to her. It was why she agreed to escape with him. It drove her in his plans. Daniel sacrificed a lot of time, energy and personal comfort to keep her safe during their time together.

But the memory of the pain overwhelmed her. She could think of nothing else.

Dale discovered something else about herself that night: guilt and fear can make the hours drag by, especially for someone who could measure time in fractions of a nanosecond.

She didn't want to tell him…but she didn't see any other options.

Dale wanted out.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Chapter 3

Cat-Tales: Moving Violations, Part III – In The Basement

By C. Mage

The two women who entered the office looked as if they'd been hired for doing their work on their backs. They dressed as if they really didn't care how much of their skin was visible, as long as all the important parts were covered. Their "business dress" consisted of gunmetal-blue and yellow two-piece outfits, with high-heeled boots that went up to their thighs.

However, their employer knew well that anyone who tried treating these women as if they were streetwalkers would most likely find themselves in a new position in the food chain…compost. "Miss Leno and Hoffman. So happy you could join us," Carmine Falcone said with a smile. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."

Bonnie smiled politely. "What's the gig?"

"Right to business, then. Very well." He puffed on a cigar, taking out a manila folder and handing it to a subordinate, who brought it over to the assassins. "I'm sure you've heard all about this 'Driver' in Gotham, haven't you?"

Carmen took her copy of the file, opening it. "Only what I've been seeing on the news."

Bonnie added, pursing her lips slightly as she read the file, "Uncle Nick's been trying to call, but he can't get past his secretary."

"Well, I want you to get him for me. Since he doesn't seem to want to return my own inquiries into his services, I think you two would be more effective at guaranteeing a meeting between us."

"In other words, Carmine, you want us to find him, truss him up and bring him to you gift-wrapped." Bonnie's pretty lips drooped in a frown.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"No, but the price is going to go up. The last kidnapping job we pulled was more headache than we'd like, so from now on, catch-and-carry jobs are at a premium."

"Very well. One hundred thousand dollars, on delivery."

Carmen shook her head. "Two hundred thousand, one-quarter up front."

Falcone looked at them both carefully. "One-fifty."

"Two hundred, and now it's one-half up front."

Bonnie smiled. There was a reason Carmen stopped doing hardcore porn. She may have had a body built for sin, but she was a lot smarter than anyone took her for, and that lesson was costing Falcone an expensive day at school. "You know, Roman, for someone who's asking us to capture a guy who's been shaking off the Bat like he was a rookie highway patrolman, you're being awfully cheap."

"And what makes you think you can do what Batman hasn't?"

"Easy. Batman faced down the Driver on the Driver's terms. Outside of that car of his, the Driver is just another target. Of course, you could always hire someone else, but you didn't hire us for our faces. You hired outside your family because you don't want the Bat to see your fingers in all of this." Bonnie leaned forward slightly. "And you know the Driver's a guy, so you figured we could get in close."

"That possibility had crossed my mind."

Bonnie grinned. "MEN," she said simply, as if that word held all of the possibilities that male stupidity and ignorance could create.

Falcone looked at them both steadily. "Very well. One hundred thousand now, another when the Driver is in front of me, _sans_ vehicle." He snapped his fingers and one of his men went to assemble the funds. "So, what's your plan?"

"Simple. We take the money from you, we get the Driver here, you pay us the rest of the money. That's all you need to know." Bonnie smiled.

--

"Daniel?"

He woke up as he heard the voice from the synthesizer on the desk. As he rubbed his eyes, Daniel turned to look at the clock. "Dale, it's the crack of noon. What's going on?"

"We've gotta talk."

Daniel rubbed his head, running his fingers through his hair. "I've got a feeling I know what you want to talk about."

"Daniel, I can't go through that again. I almost shut down completely…"

"Fine. " He stood up and walked over to the coffee pot, pouring out the dregs of the last batch and rinsing it out with cold water. "You want out? You're out."

Dale didn't say anything for a minute. Finally, she ventured, "That's it?"

"I already told you about what was at stake, Dale. I know you're incapable of forgetting about what happened or what I told you, so I don't need to remind you of anything, do I?" He turned the coffeemaker on. "Of course, the jobs are going to be a little tougher without you riding shotgun, but I've run plenty of solo missions before. I'll work it out."

"Daniel…I'm sorry…"

"Don't. Just don't say it. It's just going to sound insulting to me and demeaning to you." His voice was at normal volume, but not casual or conversational. It was cold. "Remember when I told you once that to get through pain, you have to find something worth enduring pain for?"

"…yes," she said timidly.

"I hope you find it someday, Dale. I really do." He shook his head. "I've got to go out for groceries and parts." That was it. No malicious overtones or disappointment in his voice. He'd just moved on. "Want me to get you one of those Sudoku games or something?"

"No, I'll…I'll be fine."

Daniel nodded. "Keep an ear out, see if you can delete any references to us on the internet. The fewer people know about us, the better. I'll set up the monitoring sensors so you can assist me from here. Should be easy to do if we use burst transmission." He began writing a few things on a pad of paper next to the mini-fridge. "It'll take me a few days, but I'll have the relays up by the time we take our next job."

"Okay." Her mind spun slightly, her processors running over the conversation they just had. She had expected an explosion of emotion at her staying outside the Mauler, but he didn't react nearly as dramatically as she thought he would. "I'll see if I can't check up on any government or military movements in the area."

"Be careful. Those that know you're here know you're a codebreaker. Be aware of the sophistication of the defenses you're trying to get through. If it's above the standard encryption used for the area, don't touch it and stay away from it." He put on the clothes he wore the day before. "And keep an eye open for strangers."

"Will do."

He smiled a little. "Take it easy today. Cool off." And with that, he was gone.

Dale allowed herself to slow her current for a time. _Well, maybe it will turn out well after all, now that I won't have to be in the Mauler._

Daniel walked outside, checked the local cover, then went to his car. As he sat down, he closed his eyes and sighed. Running the Mauler without giving away her position was going to be a LOT harder now. Every transmission he'd need to make to Dale ran a nearly insignificant chance of being traced, but the more he contacted her, the easier she'd be to trace.

_Looks like my job just got a lot harder. Oh well…at least I anticipated this and made plans for it. The good news is, she'll be safe._

_The bad news?_

I'm_ the one who's screwed._

--

Alfred walked into the dining room. He was feeling pleased, seeing both Bruce and Selina eating in the dining room, together. Such occasions warranted a special menu. "Your soup, Master Bruce, Miss Selina."

Bruce nodded. He still had his side of the table littered with files, but he was at the table, a minor victory in itself. As Alfred put the soup down, Bruce picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup, then took a taste, all without moving his eyes from the paper. His eyes widened slightly as he looked down at the dark green stew in front of him, then up at Alfred. "Gumbo?"

Selina's eyes widened with anticipation. Alfred did not make Cajun fare very often. "I can't wait to see what else you've cooked up."

"I decided to contact a good friend of mine down South, and he was quite generous with his recommendations. I hope you both enjoy a good fish dinner…blackened red snapper with a lemon herb sauce, shrimp etoufee and a lovely tomato and pepper salad."

"At the risk of encouraging a stereotype…" Selina sipped her soup, then closed her eyes for a moment. "I can hardly wait."

"Master Bruce, I would never presume to dictate…"

"Of course not, Alfred." Bruce put down the pages and sighed gently.

"Thank you, sir."

--

Daniel left the garage and looked around nonchalantly. He made a point of staying away from his weapon-of-choice unless he was actually trying to fix it, or reload it. All other times, he and Dale stayed in another section of town entirely. He had three safe-houses and kept shifting himself around, keeping each one well-stocked to make sure no one could stake out his home and deprive him of a few creature comforts.

That, and each place was wired to keep tabs on anyone who tried to visit unannounced.

As Daniel got into the Stingray, his cellphone went off. When Daniel had set up the security for his safe houses, he didn't exactly have his Company expense account to fall back on. The usual devices he could call upon were no longer available unless he wanted to pay through the nose for them. So he had to improvise.

Fortunately, he picked up a lot of electronics knowledge while he was holed up in a library for three days in Helsinki. Picked up a lot of German as well. All it took was a soldering iron and some parts bought at your average hardware store and electronics store.

For instance, his early-warning systems. Hook the motion detector from a set of outdoor lights to a cheap, pre-paid cellphone, and presto, instant notification of anyone looking in a window, busting down a door, or going into a bedroom. He had his phone coded with different ringtones so he could listen to the sound and tell which house was being checked out and how.

From the sound of the ring, someone had just jimmied the lock on Safe House #2.

_Great. One more errand to add to the list. Maybe it won't be too much of a chore. If I hit all green lights, I could be there in twenty minutes._

--

Carmen looked at Bonnie. "Think that did it?"

"Yep. That's a clever little trick, but that stuff only works on cheap hoods." Bonnie grinned. "He's going to come investigate, and when he does…we own him. Take the room at the end of the hall, I'll take the kitchen. As soon as he reaches the hallway to his bedroom…"

"Crossfire," Carmen nodded.

"Remember, he's not going to be able to drive for us if he's dead. The bullets might be rubber, but if you hit him in the head, they might as well be lead."

Carmen rolled her eyes. "Come on. One look at these guns and he'll cave, unless you plan on telling him what our loadout is. Now hurry up. We don't know how long it'll take for him to get here."

--

Daniel leaned back in the Stingray, looking at the TV screen on the seat next to him. He recognized the two women immediately from the image the pinhole camera was sending him. "The Body Doubles. Great. First Dale, then Selina Kyle, Roxy Rocket and now these two. And some guys complain that they don't get enough female attention. I'm getting far too much as it is…as usual." He shook his head. "Well, going in and getting captured by these two is out. If I stay away, they'll think I was tipped off and be more careful next time, and I can't afford to have these two cramping my style. Looks like I'm going to have to go with the indirect approach and hope they see reason." A mental picture of a sign formed that read: "PROVIDING A DEATH-FREE WORKPLACE – IT HAS BEEN 103 DAYS SINCE MY LAST ASSASSINATION." The image changed when an imaginary hand reached up to remove the one and the three.

Daniel shook that thought off. Old habits die hard, and too many had died too easily. "Let's see if we can go with a non-lethal solution today, huh?" he said to himself in a whisper. "Just to shake things up."

He got out of the car a block away and started walking towards the house.

--

Neither Carmen and Bonnie were novices. Both of them had worked several jobs before, each one with an admirable success rate. When they went to work for Mistress, they targeted superheroines and prevailed…well, mostly. Black Canary was the end of that winning streak, but they'd captured Power Girl. POWER GIRL, ladies and gents.

A mysterious Driver who spent all his time sitting down couldn't be that much trouble, right?

Problem was, they underestimated his odd ideas about home improvements.

They realized that something was off the moment they heard his alarm clock go off in his bedroom. Carmen looked up suddenly, startled out of her daze, then signaled to Bonnie to shut off the alarm. She had felt the beginnings of a drowse coming on and the last thing she wanted to do was zone out in the middle of a job.

Things like that got people killed. The wrong people.

She waited a few minutes, then heard something in the bedroom. She pulled herself to her feet from her crouched position, left the shotgun with the rock salt in her hiding place, drew her pistol and moved to the doorway, stopping just outside. Carmen's senses were alert and she took a deep breath as she considered what had happened. _He must've come in through the window somehow…but it was painted shut! How could he have...? The alarm. He must've waited for it to…go off and came in during the…noise…but he couldn't have set the alarm…what…?_

Carmen's gun felt heavy in her hands. Her eyelids were feeling heavy too, and it was getting hard to think. She looked into the bedroom to find Bonnie passed out on the floor. The Driver was nowhere to be seen.

_Suckered…he suckered us…_

And then coherent thought and consciousness slipped away.

A few minutes later, Daniel walked in, a gas mask over his face. He looked down at the two of them and sighed. "I don't believe this. I've got two women in my house, roofied for the next half-hour, both of whom would be trying to kill me if they were awake. And I, like an idiot, am going to let them live," he mused aloud, walking around them. "This is a real departure from my usual procedure. I wonder what happens if you go without killing someone for a while. Enlightenment? A new respect for life? Or do I just forget how?"

A brief check of their guns surprised him. _Rubber bullets? Curiouser and curiouser._ He disassembled the weapons, then decided to tie up the two of them after checking them for hidden weapons. Not that there were too many places to conceal hardware with what Carmen and Bonnie were wearing. "Geez, when did Victoria's Secret start working in Kevlar? Not like these are protecting much. Seen more cloth on a handkerchief. For shame, Carmen, didn't anyone ever tell you that the first thing you should do if you want to get out of porn is stop dressing like you're still IN porn? And Bonnie, really, if your mother was still alive, she'd have a heart attack if she saw you wearing this in public."

Once he finished, he went to his closet. His next choice was a difficult one. But, after careful consideration, he decided to go with the blue duct tape.

--

Bonnie woke up first. Her head felt light and it took her a few minutes to realize that she couldn't move an inch. She looked down and found that she was halfway to becoming a blue mummy. _Wow,_ she thought dazedly, _it's going to be one of _those_ kinds of dates…_

Then she saw Carmen in the same condition, only she was bound with red duct tape. She frowned. Despite their professional name, they didn't double-date. She raised her head, blinking to clear her vision. When the vapors left her brain, she found herself able to focus.

And that's when Bonnie saw the Driver sitting on the dresser, a silenced semi-automatic in his right hand. From the look of the barrel, it was a .223, which meant it would have enough force to enter a person's skull, but not enough force to leave it. The bullet would bounce around inside the cranium and turn the world's most elegant organic computer into bean dip.

"From the look on your face, Miss Hoffman, I'd say you'd just sized up your chances of getting out of here alive. Good. Saves me a lot of time." He stood up. "Your guns are over there…some assembly required, though. Rubber bullets. Somebody wanted me alive. Who?"

"Sorry, Driver, but that's on a…" She was about to say, "need to know basis," but the feel of the floor next to her foot splintering cut her off. She looked up. The Driver's face hadn't changed one bit. His eyes were focused on her.

He had just shot the floor an inch away from her big toe without looking away from her.

"I think you should find another answer. Preferably one that isn't a negative one. Names are good."

"I'm afraid I can't…"

The Driver fired again, his eyes not leaving hers, the barrel popping up slightly and a sound of oiled metal sliding in the air. Bonnie felt a stitch of fire across her arm. She yelped, bringing Carmen around as a two-inch gouge appeared on her arm. She looked up at the Driver, anger, disbelief and fear fighting for room on her face.

"You're not afraid, Bonnie. Not yet. I'm going to ask you one more time."

"Or what?! You're going to shoot me?"

"No." The barrel moved to the right. "I'm going to shoot her."

Bonnie's eyes went wide. "You're bluffing."

"Last person who said that ended up with a closed-casket funeral. Now, you're going to tell me what I want to know, or I'm going to shoot Carmen's eyes right out of that lovely head of hers."

Bonnie glared at the Driver, then said, "Carmine Falcone. He wanted a meet with you, but you're not returning his calls."

"That's because I don't plan of getting owned by anyone, least of all some piece-of-shit mob guy who thinks I'm just another gun in his gun safe." He took out a knife. "Do I need to tell you to hold still?"

Bonnie shot daggers at him, but only with her eyes.

The Driver cut the duct tape away from the bleeding gash in her arm, then took a first aid kit from under the bed. One surgical needle, five stitches and a gauze wrapping later, Bonnie and Carmen were feeling more hopeful about their chances of not dying. "So you were bluffing after all," Bonnie said, smiling triumphantly.

The Driver looked at her. She looked right into his eyes and got the distinct impression that he had not been bluffing. What's more, she started to wonder if he'd EVER bluffed anyone before. He didn't answer her, but set the knife on the bed. "Okay, ladies…here's how this is going to work. I'm going to leave now. I'm not going to come back. You two get to live. You two can probably get yourselves free in an hour or so. Once we leave here, there's going to be no hard feelings either way. I'm not going to come after you and you two aren't going to come after me. We're not going to part friends and we're not going to part enemies."

Carmen looked the Driver over. "And what do we do about Carmine?"

"Give him back his money, minus expenses, and tell him that he'll get his wish. I'll be coming to see him real soon. Only thing is, I won't be making an appointment."

"And the next time we meet?" Bonnie asked curiously.

"Then I'll do what all guys do when they see stunning ladies at the Iceberg. I'll buy you both drinks," he said with an easy smile.

"And if the next time isn't at the Iceberg?"

The smile went away. Gone, just like that. "Depends on what you're doing. If you're not on the job, I'll smile and say hello. If you're working, I'll do my civic duty and ID your bodies at the morgue later."

"Are you always this charming?" Carmen asked, testing the strength of the duct tape.

"I get testy when people break into my house with automatic weapons. I'm funny that way." He stood up and went to the door. "Oh yeah, there's a chocolate cheesecake in the fridge. Help yourself," he said cheerily as he disappeared from view.

Carmen and Bonnie stared at the doorway for a few moments, then turned to each other. "Did he just offer us cheesecake after threatening to kill us?" Carmen asked.

"Okay…surreal, but all I know right now is that I really hate duct tape and I want out. If he's telling the truth, then at least it'll make up for getting shot, but it had better be really _good_ cheesecake."

"That was just a flesh wound and you've had worse."

"Carmen! A piece of _lead_ broke open my skin and drew _blood._"

"Big deal. No muscle trauma and immediate medical attention. Nice technique, too. Must get in a lot of practice."

"With that kind of attitude, he probably had to practice medical attention on himself."

"Shut up and get the knife."

From there, it was slow going as they tried to cut the tap without cutting themselves (successful) and removing the duct tape from their bodies and hair (not quite as successful). Fortunately, the cheesecake in the fridge was exquisite. What was even more surprising was the realization that the Driver had actually made the cheesecake himself. The syrup was handmade, the graham-cracker crust fresh and firm…

The Body Doubles decided on their second bites that the treat was, in fact, worth a flesh wound. On the third bite, they debated whether it might have been worth a formal gunshot wound with the bullet actually penetrating the body. By the tenth bite, they were firm in the belief that the confection was worth more than one gunshot to the torso.

Nothing over .380 caliber, of course, no cheesecake was THAT good.

--

Daniel looked outside as he drove towards his fence. Every contact has a good side and a bad side, like most people, but being someone in demand made it hard to be picky. Add in the considerable rarity of being able to get parts for a custom job like the Mauler, and that usually meant dealing with people who had enough psychological baggage to pack for a year-long vacation.

Take now, for example.

Larry Coda, resident high-tech wonder, not that anyone knew for sure where his residence was. Number Nine on the NSA watch-list. Smuggled hardware in and out of places with electronic security tuned to count the wingbeats of flies. Master of electronic warfare. If the NSA could even locate him, he'd end up in prison for so long, the heat death of the universe would occur sooner than his nearest parole hearing. Daniel had read his file, what there was of it. The most substantial part of the file was his psych evaluation. Larry had raised paranoia from a state of insanity to a state of being. Every move he made was designed to cover his tracks. Rumor had it that he'd stolen matter-transforming technology from some undisclosed alien race only so he could recycle "organic waste matter" into its base chemical compounds and use them for his own methods, including recombining them into edible food.

Larry's instructions on going to the meeting place were convoluted enough to make sure that if God wanted to find him, He'd have to pull into a gas station and tell the Archangel Gabriel to go inside and ask for directions. Daniel had changed cars three times, changed taxis eight times, and it took him most of the afternoon just to get to his destination. Even then, he wasn't sure it WAS his destination even as he walked into the office building, as instructed, and walked through the hallways and up and down several floors. The last stop was an elevator ride that brought him to the sub-sub-sub-basement of the building, one Daniel was certain wasn't on the original blueprints.

When he walked out, he stepped through a portal of energy that closed behind him, standing in a cylindrical room with bare concrete walls, floor and ceiling, big enough to store a herd of elephants. Wooden boxes and crates surrounded the middle of the room, all of them marked with different packing labels in different languages. In the middle of the room was a sizable workstation with twenty video screens and massive computer hardware, big enough to make the Bat-Computer look like a pocket calculator in comparison. It was enclosed inside three sets of wire fencing, each with different styles and patterns. And from the looks of things, the whole system was being powered by something that looked like a cross between an Xbox360 and a Christmas tree.

"Larry?" Daniel called out.

There was a sound that resembled a noise a particle accelerator might make, then a man walked out from behind a large crate with a Nazi swastika and a two-headed hawk printed on the side. The man was tall, thin, with red hair cut short and looking as if it hadn't seen a comb in decades. He wore a "DOCTOR WHO LIVES!" t-shirt, dirty jeans and sneakers, no laces. He looked at Daniel carefully. "Well, well, you must be Daniel Vulpas…at least, that's the name you're using now. Sorry I wasn't available, had to go to the bathroom."

"You have a bathroom in here?"

"Not exactly. See for yourself while I connect." As Larry went through the rigorous task of unlocking his system, Daniel walked around the crates to see a porcelain throne sitting on top of a metal box. He knelt and opened the access panel.

Seated right underneath the business end of the toilet receptacle was what appeared to be a yellowish ball of burning energy that looked uncomfortably like a miniature version of the Sun. Daniel closed the access panel and swallowed. Thinking about a constant thermonuclear reaction being used as a port-a-potty made his brain hurt. What made him even more uncomfortable was the crate next to the "bathroom". Not only was the crate covered with markings and seals dating back to Nazi Germany in the late thirties…it was humming slightly. Constantly. "Larry, what have you got in here??"

"Just something I liberated from a warehouse in Virginia."

"It's humming."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch; it's been doing that since I picked it up years ago."

Daniel decided at that point that asking more questions about the contents of his warehouse would only result in further mental distress. "Larry, why did I have to rent three cars and eight taxis just to be able to get here?"

"Because you're one of the few people around here I trust more than others. If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't get in here in a week."

"All this just to get to an office building in Gotham City?"

Larry smiled. "What makes you think you're still _in_ Gotham?"

Daniel looked at Larry. "The brain-pain's just going to get worse the more questions I ask, huh?"

"What do you think?" Larry's smile grew almost Joker-wide.

"I think I'm going to stop asking questions that don't pertain to my order. Which brings me to why I'm here."

Larry thumbed over to three crates with green seals on them and a crowbar sitting on the largest crate. "Check them out."

"I'll pass. Trust is a two-way street, after all." Daniel took out a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. "Here's the account number from my Swiss bank account. I'll wait until you transfer it."

Larry leaned back in his chair. "Did that hours ago, Daniel."

Daniel stared at Larry. "Planning on taking over the world, Coda?"

"Do I look like I want to deal with that headache? Forget it. My expenses get paid for, I can do whatever I want…but whatever I want to do matters only to me. Crunching the numbers, hacking the code; for me, there's nothing better."

"And fronting hardware and hacking for the bad guys, what's that pay?"

Larry turned to the computer screen and pulled up a photo. It was a picture of Superman, a few years shaved off, pulling a school bus away from a ledge over a river. "See that picture?"

"What about it?"

"Third window over." He zoomed in on the picture. In the window was a very scared Larry Coda. "I was fourteen and Superman saved my life. You ever even HINT that I'd help out some scumbag supervillain again, Daniel Vulpas, and I will personally guarantee that you won't live to see your entire life splashed across the Gotham Times. You got that, Mr. Ex-Guvmint-Spook?"

"Easy, Larry, calm down."

"FUCK easy, FUCK calm and FUCK YOU." He stabbed a button and another doorway opened in the air nearby. "Get out of here. If it wasn't for the fact that I figured out what you were trying to do and that I hadn't already accepted your money, you and I would never do business again!"

Daniel nodded. _Anti-social much?_ he thought, walking towards the dolly where the crates were sitting.

"Uh-uh-uh, Driver. Crates are yours. The dolly's mine. I've read your file, Vulpas, and I know how the Icarus project changed you. Besides, right now, I don't like you very much. Oh, I'll eventually cool off and forgive that crack about helping out psychotic scumbags…but NOT TODAY."

Daniel sighed as he reached down and lifted the first crate off the dolly. It weighed slightly over three hundred pounds, but Daniel hefted it easily and walked it outside, finding himself on a train platform. The other two crates were significantly heavier; just over a half-ton each. He had to settle for dragging them to the portal and putting them on the platform.

The portal closed and Daniel looked around. Definitely London, England. In fact, it looked familiar.

It came to him a few seconds where he'd seen the surroundings. It was from a movie. Between Platforms Nine and Ten, but closer to Ten. _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters…oh, I am just pissing my pants, you are so funny, Coda._ He picked up his cell. "Dale? It's me. I'm going to be a little late for dinner…"

--

"Zero plus two means me and you, add in three for a killing spree, make it four, beg for more…" The Joker giggled. "It's a beautiful day to make them pay!"

Outside in the hallway, one of the orderlies who worked at Arkham Asylum shivered. He was one of the rare one who'd worked there for longer than six months. After dealing with the likes of people like the Joker, Two-Face, Scarface and Poison Ivy, it was easy to see how the turnover rate for entry-level workers leaned towards the high side. "Don't stay too long at Arkham," the more jaded ones warn, "or else you'll end up on the wrong side of the bars."

The orderly shook himself, trying to clear his mind of the dread he felt, then heard the Joker's voice just on the other side of the door.

That voice, strangely calm and lucid, alarmed the orderly more than his giggling did. "Tell me, Richardson…what do you think of this Driver person?"

"I'm not supposed to talk with you…"

"Oh, _come now_," Joker said, a smile on his face. "Humor me." It took a great deal of effort not to chuckle at his pun.

"I have rounds," he began.

"You also have a very pretty wife. Janet, right? And the most DARLING little boys, Robert and Carl. Carl just got out of the Terrible Twos, didn't he?"

Richardson's throat went dry.

"Well, Richardson my lad, you have a choice. I want to talk about someone. When I get out of here, I want to be able to show my appreciation to that someone. We can either discuss the Driver, like two civilized human beings…or we can discuss your family. However, I cannot promise the conversation, or the appreciation, will be as civil. You see, I'd rather talk about the Driver more."

The orderly tried not to moan as he whispered, "What do you want to know?"

"Oh, not much, just everything you know. In return for your generous display of camaraderie, I will forget about your family completely. That's fair, isn't it? After all, my brain is reaching critical mass with all the important information tucked inside. I'd rather fill what little room I have left with things I want to know. And the more you'll tell me about the Driver, the less room I'll have for your mate and your brood."

Richardson wished he'd taken a job less stressful and dangerous…like juggling chainsaws. He began to speak, reporting everything he'd seen in the papers or on TV about the Driver. The Joker didn't speak, listening, hanging on every word, until the words stopped coming. Then he began to ask questions in that calm voice, picking out details. By the time the Joker finished with Richardson, two hours had passed.

"Well, Richardson, I must say you've been a font of information. I can't tell you how glad I am we spoke…so I won't." The grin was back. "You'd better head back. I'm sure there are others waiting to hear from you. Ta ta, kiss kiss!"

Richardson fairly bolted away from the door to find his supervisor walking towards him, a frown on her face. After a short but furious reprimand about being on time with his duties, the supervisor declared that Richardson would have to face disciplinary action. One week suspension, without pay.

Richardson almost kissed her.

--

Daniel walked out to the truck waiting for him at Gotham International Airport. The crates had already been loaded, the paperwork from Customs expedited, and his trip had been fully comped by the CIA office in London. He smiled. _I doubt the Deputy Director will be happy to hear when the bills come in that an "Agent Farley, Charles U." helped the Driver with a rather expensive shipping job and first-class tickets. Lobster was a little bland, though._

As he climbed into the cab, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Two black sedans in the parking lot to his left, both with windows tinted, almost black. Since the sun didn't come out in Gotham often enough to warrant that kind of option for normal people, that left those involved in something they'd rather not be caught doing.

He frowned. Daniel scanned the parking lot, then the buildings around. He picked out four primary sniper positions, nine ambush points, and fifteen possible placement points for bombs, then saw the real reason for the hairs standing on his neck.

He got out of the truck and walked through the slush towards a blond man standing next to a parked motorcycle. The man wore a biker's jacket and pants, his matching helmet resting on the vehicle behind him. As Daniel walked closer, the man smiled. "Hello, Daniel."

"Rath." Daniel didn't smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you know me…I can't resist Christmas and snow. You picked the right place for it, too," Rath added brightly. "Maybe we'll get to have a snowball fight."

"Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining, Rath. You're here for a job."

"Yep. And lucky you, you're the reason I'm here."

Daniel felt his pulse quicken. "There's too many innocent people around here, Rath. Don't do this."

"Oh, Danny-boy, I'm not going to do anything _now._ Oh, don't start relaxing, I'm not going to hold off on the fun because there are too many civilians around. I'm holding off because there aren't _enough_ citizens around." Rath smiled as if watching children play on a swing-set. "Trust me, when I start the fun, there are going to be so many hats on the ground, it'll look like a fedora factory exploded."

"Rath…"

"Of course, you could always spoil my fun and turn in all the stuff you stole, not to mention yourself. Of course, I'll be hurt and disappointed, but I can live with that, and so will a lot of other people. Tell you what, Danny-boy. I'll be a sport. I'll give you two weeks to think it over. And I promise that I'll TRY to keep from doing what comes naturally to me. Of course, a few people might die, but not more than six. MAYBE seven. All right, seven. If you decide early, great."

"I could always take you out right now." Daniel clenched his fists.

"Hell, that sounds like fun. Of course, people around could die, the authorities would come in, and you haven't finished what you came here to do. That wouldn't be a problem, would it?"

"Why haven't you been disavowed yet?" Daniel snarled.

"Because I'm good at what I do, Danny-boy, and lots of powerful people need me to do their dirty work. Don'tcha just love job security? Oh wait, that's right, you don't have that anymore."

Daniel turned. "Don't get in my way, Rath."

"I won't need to. You see, when you were blacklisted, I decided to throw a 'Daniel Got Burned' party. Sent out invitations to a lot of people you knew professionally. I like big parties, what can I say?" He smiled. "I expect that you'll be getting gifts pretty soon. Won't that be fun?"

Daniel stopped. "Professionally."

"Most of them use the word, 'jihad' a lot. People from all over the world, places you've been. Karl Stovich, you remember him? Kinda thick, bad complexion, tried to put a knife in your ribs when you were in Prague? Also sent a message to Kimiko Atsuragi. She really wants to see you again and to show her gratitude for everything you did the last time you were there."

"She tried to assassinate five Navy officers."

"Yeah. You two will probably have a lot to talk about."

Daniel felt a chill. "You son of a _bitch_."

"I can prove my parentage beyond a shadow of a doubt." Rath put on his helmet. "You know where to find me, Danny-boy. Two weeks from today, four in the afternoon. I'll hold off until then, maybe check out a few movies." He straddled the motorcycle and turned back to Daniel. "One second past four…and I'll start the fun without you. And just think of all the toys I'll have to play with. Nerve gas. High-explosives. State-of-the-art weapons. Collateral damage as far as the eye can see. And only you can stop it, Danny-boy." He kick-started the engine. "Feel like one of your big-shot heroes yet?"

Daniel didn't answer, but he ground his teeth as Rath rode away and Daniel walked back to the truck. As he climbed in, he took a deep breath to settle his nerves. He'd dealt with Rath before, usually the aftermath. The last time had been the use of a biological weapon that a terrorist group had been trying to perfect. Rath volunteered to pick a large village to test it on. Daniel had taken care of the terrorist leaders, but he was too late to catch Rath.

And now Rath was in town, soon to be followed by every enemy agent or terrorist he'd ever pissed off, without the benefit of having an intelligence agency to provide backup.

He started the truck and looked over at the two sedans he'd seen earlier. They pulled out casually, leaving at the same time. Hunting dogs, useful only for spooking the prey.

And as much as it galled him, he wasn't the only government-trained loose cannon in Gotham anymore. That altered his status somewhat. The balance between Predator and Prey had shifted in a slow, but inexorable slide further away from the Predator side.

Two weeks. For some, it was a long vacation in the tropics.

For others, it was a lifetime.

--

Roxy Rocket smiled as she polished the steel on her newest ride. She made sure to shine up around each rivet. _After all, a lady had to look her best to make a good first impression. Well, technically, we've already met, but it wasn't an official first date. I want him to take one look at me and forget all about that tramp he's got for a secretary._

She wiped her hands on a rag and took a step back to look at her newest creation. The rocket was built in the 1950s art deco style she always found appealing, but this one had a few extras. Instead of a single engine in the fuselage like her past rides, this one had three engines installed on the outer edges of the fins, using the extra space in the fuselage for fuel capacity. Better electronics, a VTOL mode and, best of all, it was a two-seater.

She smiled. _I can't wait to see just how fast she can go. There's no way the Driver will miss me flying through Gotham at two hundred miles an hour on this baby._ Roxy walked around the rear, frowning. _May need to give it a few wind-tunnel tests. I don't want an engine failure to send a wonderful date into a tailspin…literally._

She rubbed her chin, then grinned widely. _Of course. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before._ Roxy picked up a set of wire cutters. _Driver, I'm going to give you a ride you'll never forget._

--

Robin and Batgirl looked down from the roof of the apartment building. Robin had spotted them first, loading boxes of electronics from the back of Crazy Bob's. After checking in with Batgirl, they realized that another electronics store was being hit at the same time. Oracle began relaying information as she connected to other security services,

Every one of the Crazy Bob franchises in Gotham seemed to be a target tonight.

"+All nine were hit, all at the exact same time+" Oracle reported, scanning the screens. "+Looks like it's going to be a busy night.+"

Nightwing swung over Ninety-First Street, then looked down. He blinked. "Oracle, check me on this. The Driver's job with Wayne and Selina was two days ago, right?"

"+Why do you ask?+"

"Because I just saw the Mauler drive right under me."

"+Damaged?+"

Nightwing landed on a fire escape and watched as the Mauler roared down the street. "It looks like it just drove off the showroom floor. I think the Driver even got a new wax job."

"+I'll let Batman know.+"

"Keep me posted. I can't wait to hear how he handles it."

--

Batman did not take it…well.

At first, Bruce couldn't believe it. He had Nightwing confirm the description of the vehicle, right down to the sounds of the engines, then he checked the logs on the Bat-Computer that recorded the data from the sensors.

The results made Batman growl. Though the data revealed a metallurgical outline of the chassis, that was all it could gather…and the sensors hadn't moved ever since they'd returned home from their wild ride. _Damn. He must've discovered the sensors during his repairs and discarded them._ He'd been hoping to glean more information, but the small slices of data he'd received were eye-opening enough. The designs were military-grade products, but from projects the government had publicly declared "non-cost-effective". That, in and of itself, was not uncommon. Military contracts came up every other day about projects that were too complex to maintain without a massive budget or products that used materials too exotic to supply from Day One. Batman dug deeper, adding in details about the Mauler's capabilities.

Oracle pieced the rest together for him. After doing more than a little digging, she found that the Mauler's hardware strongly resembled other military projects that had been considered too expensive. But analysis of those programs revealed that many of them were not only cost-effective, but actually inexpensive to maintain.

Batman smiled. _Of course…how do you hide the use of military hardware if you want to use it for something others might not approve of? Raise the prices of everything and fool oversight committees into saying, "We can't approve this," while maintaining the prototypes used for testing. Then build what you want after getting the bugs out of the prototypes, and if anyone finds out, claim "security breach" and cover your tracks. If you're lucky and you succeed in your agendas, all you need to do is say, "We've re-worked the numbers and changed out materials, so now it's cost-effective" and presto, military contract approved._

_And in the meantime…_

Batman stopped. _That's where everything breaks down. This doesn't feel like a field test. Something's missing. The only missing pieces…are the ones that the Driver is holding._

He picked up the phone. "Alfred? Could you ask Selina to come down? I need to talk with her about something."

"I'm afraid she's not here, sir. She's gone out."

Batman checked the clock. _It's a little early for her usual prowling, and she didn't tell me she was leaving._ "Did she say where she was going?"

"No, sir, but she did want me to give you a message." He held up a small piece of paper. "'Dear Bruce, next time a woman tells you where she is going, do more than just grunt and nod your head. She might get the impression that you're not listening.' If I may say so, sir…"

Bruce sighed. "Don't worry, Alfred. I got the message."

--

The Driver got out of his cab and looked around, not wondering where he was, but why he was there.

He looked at the front of the Iceberg Lounge, noting a sign on the right: "THURSDAY IS KARAOKE NIGHT!" There was a certain surreal sensation, knowing that some of the most vicious and dangerous villains in Gotham could actually sing, or at least, try to sing. What was the reality? Were the villains just people trying to get by in the world on their own terms, or were they criminals for the sake of being criminals, because the world wouldn't accept them any other way?

Maybe the answer was somewhere in between. Rarely were such caricatures of people in shades of black and white. He knew what it was like working amid a million different shades of gray in his old job. The problem was, the shades had gotten darker and darker over the years. The one ray of light now was staying on this course, following it through.

He knew what his old commanding officer would say if he saw him right now. _"You're walking into a den of monsters, people who kill, steal and destroy because it suits their needs. Be alert and on your guard, because you are heading into hostile territory."_

The thought made him want to laugh. He already knew how he'd answer back. "In that respect, sir," he said to no one in particular as he entered the Iceberg Lounge, "it feels exactly like home. Only difference is, there's a bar menu."

The Driver looked around as he passed the doorman and walked towards the hostess' podium. Raven saw him enter and smiled. "Hello, Driver, welcome back to the Iceberg. May I take your jacket?"

The Driver stopped, then looked at her.

Raven had faced down many of Gotham's Most Wanted. The Joker, Scarecrow, and even a meeting with the Batman himself, and she remembered their eyes, remembered how they made her feel.

The Driver's eyes were different. Cold, dark, scary in a way that not even the Joker had ever inspired. It was like looking into a freshly dug grave at midnight. She didn't feel the same kind of panic that some of the other Rogues had elicited from her.

For a few moments, Raven wondered if the Driver had, in fact, died during one of his jobs, and some form of cosmic momentum kept him from lying down and accepting his demise.

"No thanks," he said, walking past her. The tone was low, but polite. A chill crawled down her spine like an icy spider exploring her back. As soon as the Driver passed her, she pressed a button under the edge of the wooden podium. The pattern of button presses was short and to the point, going directly to the light on Oswald's desk. The message she sent was clear.

"_Something bad is about to happen."_

The Iceberg's lights were low and someone was on stage, currently mangling Faith No More's "It's It." It was Killer Croc, his gravelly voice offsetting the tune so the end result was nearly, but almost entirely UNLIKE the way the song was supposed to be performed. The tables closest to the stage were vacant, and the people at the tables within earshot were trying not to visibly wince at the sounds coming out of Croc's mouth. When Croc tried to hit one of the higher notes, the glasses at tables eight and eleven cracked.

The Driver took a seat at the bar. Sly smiled as he walked over, a tall glass filled with ginger ale tinted slightly green in his hand. "On the house."

For a moment, the Driver looked at the drink as if Sly had cheerfully offered the Driver a decomposing rat floating in a bucket of vomit. Then he nodded and took the glass, setting it carefully down on the bartop. "Thanks," he said, not sounding like he meant it.

"Bad day?" Sly asked, caught off-guard by the Driver's demeanor…and Sly was not a person caught flat-footed often.

"You could say that." The Body Doubles weren't exactly dressed to kill, at least not openly. They did, however, give the Driver a once-over, sipping their drinks in unison. His eyes weren't on them, though many men in the place were trying hard not to look as if their eyes weren't glued to the blonde and raven-haired bombshells. His eyes were checking out the other people in the Iceberg.

By the time Sly asked, "Care to elaborate?" he'd picked out the Company men and women. Six in all. Four men, two women. It wasn't obvious, which meant they sent people in who were better trained than the usual minders and handlers that came out of the CIA and NSA.

"Let's just say that I had to shell out some money for repairs because some losers thought it would be a good idea to total my car in the middle of a job." He noticed that only one of the agents reacted to that, one of the men attempting to chat up Bonnie. "Damage looked worse than it was, but I had to hammer out a few dents." He saw another woman come into the Iceberg and forced himself not to smile.

Selina Kyle was in the house.

The Driver grinned mentally. _Look what the Bat sent in._

--

Selina was prepared to have a nice, relaxing drink before her evening prowl, find out if anyone had decided to lay claim to any targets in particular, and chat up Eddie for the latest gossip. The last thing she expected to see was a familiar leatherhead with red hair. She continued on, maintaining the aloof I-don't-care-who-you-are-I'll-notice-you-when-it-suits-ME attitude that made her infamous. _Walk up to him and demand to know what his game was? Too Psycho-Bat. Play coy and make pleasant conversation? Too many opportunities for that to get ugly, judging from the look on his face. Somebody pissed in his gas tank, and it was too late to do anything but do the polite meet-and-greet._ She sighed. _Well, why mess with the time-honored routine of flying by the seat of my pants?_ Selina walked over to the bar, then veered off as she saw Sly's hand-gesture, pretending to suddenly see someone else she wanted to talk with.

She'd seen that gesture before, when she had come into the Iceberg one night while the Joker was having a mad-on against the Dark Knight and was looking for an excuse to take it out on someone. She smiled as she walked over to Poison Ivy's booth. "Pamela…been a while," she said conversationally, sliding into the booth through the veil of vines. "Sorry about this, but…"

"I know." Ivy turned to look at the Driver. "Someone's feeling volatile tonight."

"You're sounding remarkably sympathetic. I was under the impression from the last time I saw you that you didn't like the Driver much. Something about his 'pollution-belching machine', as I recall."

"I've been hearing things about how he's spending his money. Do you know someone donated a hundred thousand dollars to a private charity, with the stipulation that it be used to fight against a new city proposal?"

"What was the proposal?"

"It would've cut funding towards maintaining Robinson Park, as well as some of the other municipal groves in Gotham. I had to blow some of my special kisses to find out that the money came from the Driver, minus twenty thousand dollars."

"Planning to green him, or hire him as a henchman? It's either that or adoption, and he's a little old for that."

"Selina…who is he?" Poison Ivy asked, a little more intensity in the question. "Do you know?"

"I've got a few ideas, but nothing concrete."

"There have been people asking about him all over Gotham. Not just the Rogues…people from the government. Jervis claims he received a tip that the vehicle that almost killed you and Bruce came from a military compound. It's getting dangerous, for all of us, and he's just sitting there, as if none of it can touch him, good or bad." Poison Ivy narrowed her eyes. "I don't know whether to hate him or protect him. I don't understand why he's doing this. And do you know what the really strange part is?"

"What?"

Ivy turned to Selina. "He reminds me of the Bat."

A sudden movement caught Selina's eye and she turned towards the door. Five men had entered, wearing black suits that practically screamed "government issue." "Looks like you're going to find out whether you hate him or not…"

--

The Driver felt a sensation akin to relief. Apparently, he didn't have to wait for the other shoe to drop as he saw the men enter the Iceberg. They walked right up to him, one of them pulling out a badge and ID. "Daniel Vulpas, come with us."

The Driver didn't turn. "Beat it. I'm having a nice, peaceful drink and you guys are ruining it for me."

"This isn't a request, Daniel, we're taking you in." The leader took out a pair of heavy-duty handcuffs. The other undercover agents stood up, looking annoyed that they were forced to back up the other agents and blow their cover. They walked over to the Driver, then stopped as they realized that many of the other patrons were looking right at them. Harley Quinn was cracking her knuckles. Killer Croc had halted his serenade, moving off the stage. Edward Nygma had risen from his seat, his trick cane in his hand. The Body Doubles placed their drinks on the bartop.

But the final straw was when Roxy Rocket came into the Iceberg, took one look at the crowd of suits surrounding the Driver and said firmly, "Back off, boys. I'm not going to tell you twice."

The agents drew their guns, pointing them around the room. "We're only here for the Driver. This doesn't concern any of you."

Croc scowled, teeth bared. "Right. We've heard _that_ one before, and the joke wasn't funny then, either. Just back out of the door and nobody gets hurt."

The Driver looked around, surprised. He hadn't expected anyone in the Iceberg to consider him anything more than a movie-of-the-week, the latest sideshow freak. Watching the people in the Iceberg actually sticking their necks out for him came right out of left field. At that moment, he realized what the people in the Iceberg were getting into, and that was more heat than he was willing to risk to anyone except himself. "Look, everyone calm down, let the sphincters loosen a little…I'll go quietly."

"The hell you will," Croc said with a snarl. "Nobody comes into the Iceberg and pulls this kind of crap without a fight." The others murmured agreements as Ivy stepped out of her booth, a cruel smile on her face.

Oswald stepped out of his office, umbrella in hand. "Gentlemen, I believe you've worn out your welcome." He suspected that he might've been getting in over his head, but Oswald wasn't about to have HIS place overrun by the Men in Black. _A bird can only suffer so much indignity,_ he reasoned. "Kindly leave the premises."

"And if we refuse?" one of the women inquired.

Harley smiled. She loved it when people asked questions like that. "Oh, _please_ refuse. Really."

The tension in the Iceberg was now thicker than country music. Nobody moved, though many of the regulars in the Lounge desperately wanted to do so much more than simply move. It was a matter of principle. Selina could read the words on every single face in the Iceberg, even on Raven and the other waitresses: "This is OUR place, and you're not welcome."

Finally, the lead agent put his handcuffs away. He turned to the Driver. "You win this one, turncoat, but you won't be able to hide behind this sideshow forever." He turned to the other Rogues. "You are all going to wish you'd never laid eyes upon us."

"Mister, we're there. Trust me." Roxy walked up to the agent and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out his sunglasses and putting them on. This act of defiance pushed the agent over the edge and he reached back to slap the glasses and Roxy's smug look right off her face. The others started forward, ready to deliver retribution.

As it turned out, they didn't need to do anything.

The open palm was now frozen in place as the wrist connected to it was held firmly by the Driver's right hand. The Driver looked at the offending agent and shook his head. "And to think, you could've walked out of here without a career-ending wound." He suddenly squeezed and everyone in the Iceberg heard bones snap. The agent's eyes went wide in pain as the Driver shattered bones like they were uncooked spaghetti, then released the wrist. "Didn't your momma ever teach you how wrong it is to smack a lady around?" The Driver slid off the bar stool. A part of his mind was screaming at him that he'd been stupid; he'd gotten emotionally involved in a combat situation and he knew that it was a mistake, but another larger part of his mind was bellowing at the other part to shut the hell up. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but all he knew was that it felt good. It felt _righteous._

Oswald smiled. _So the Driver's a gentleman, after all._ It made Oswald's next words that much more satisfying to say. "Boys and girls, be sure to thank your peerless leader when you regain consciousness for changing your point of egress from the front door to the dumpster. With any luck, one or two of you might wake up before the garbage truck compresses you all into a thick paste." A thin trail of pink smoke came from the tip of his umbrella and he waved it under their noses. Three of them tried to hold their breath, but Croc was more than eager to stimulate their need to breathe with a swift belt into their bellies. Once they were out cold, Croc and the Body Doubles carried them out through the back door.

The Driver turned to Oswald. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but you might be getting into more trouble than you think with these guys."

"Sometimes, my boy, even criminals have to stand for something. Besides, the gas will not only keep them out for hours, but it also causes short-term memory loss and a rather nasty headache. They won't remember the past two days, much less what happened tonight."

The Driver took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. As they say, the first is always free. Besides, if word got out about this, it might harm our otherwise sterling reputations." Oswald smiled. "Now then, I believe drinks are on the house. In fact, ginger ales all around, in honor of the newest Rogue to join our dysfunctional family."

The Driver blinked, looking around. His eyes fell on Roxy, whose eyes were shining. "Uh, Roxy…you all right?"

Roxy couldn't speak. Nobody had ever stood up for her like that before, let alone called her a "lady". She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes. "Driver, you and I are going out Friday night."

"Huh?"

"You heard me. You are taking me out for a nice dinner and we're going to paint the town red." She poked a finger at the Driver's chest. "And I'm not taking no for an answer."

The Driver looked down at Roxy, then smiled softly. "Okay."

"I mean it. You and I are going out and that's final. There's no way you are going to talk your way out of…huh??"

"I said, 'okay'. Friday it is."

Roxy stopped. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you realize how serious I was about this." She looked at him for a few more moments, then said, "Well, uhm, seven o'clock?"

"You got it. I'll pick you up."

Roxy smiled. "Great. See you then!"

As she walked off, the Driver smiled without realizing it. He turned to see Selina and Poison Ivy looking at him. "What??" he asked, his smile sliding off his face.

"We have to talk," Poison Ivy said firmly. "We're involved now, so you are going to tell us what is going on."

"Now," Selina added.

"What do you want, a curfew? Either of you want to chaperone?"

What made them pause was that each of them had felt protective about Roxy. She wasn't as jaded or as experienced in the world of crime, and they both suddenly felt like big sisters. "That wasn't what we wanted to talk with you about, Driver," Ivy said, the lie coming easy.

The Driver looked at them evenly. He turned to Selina. "What I have to say, I'm only going to say to Batman…and Catwoman. What they do with the information is up to them."

Ivy's lips became a thin green line. "Unsatisfactory."

"Sorry, Pamela, but it's gone way beyond heroes and villains, crime and punishment. You're going to have to trust me," the Driver said somberly.

Poison Ivy blinked as the Driver used her real first name, not because he knew it, but the way he said it made it sound like he was talking to her, not her villain persona. "You had better have a good reason for all this subterfuge, Driver," she said without a hint of mirth.

He replied in an equally serious tone, "It's to die for."

Selina watched the exchange with a growing sense of dread. "When and where?"

"Midnight. North Gotham Cemetary." He dropped a twenty on the bartop. "Keep the change." With that, he walked out of the Iceberg and was gone.

Pamela shook her head. "It was hard enough when there was _one_ Batman in Gotham."

"Pam, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with two men in a boneyard."

Ivy smiled at last. "Sounds kinky."

--

Catwoman made a gesture of checking her watch as she saw the Batmobile show up on the road through the cemetery. "You're late," she quipped. "Don't you know you're never supposed to keep a lady waiting?"

He didn't answer, walking past her, cape flapping in the wind blowing off the water. Catwoman sighed. "My, but you're less fun than usual." She walked along, keeping an eye out. "Think he'll be hard to find?"

Batman stopped as he looked over at a hill overlooking the main parking lot. Sitting on top of the hill was a motorcycle with a familiar-looking leatherhead leaning against it. "Not tonight." He moved up behind the red-head in black and red leather. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble to get my attention, Driver…or should I say, 'Mr. Vulpas'?"

The Driver turned and smiled to both Batman and Catwoman. He clapped his hands together softly and slowly. "Good job. Beats having to make introductions. Mind if I borrow one of your Batarangs for a second?"

Batman looked at the Driver coldly, silent as the tombstones around them.

"Temporarily."

Batman looked at the Driver for a few more minutes, then took out one of his normal, non-gadget Batarangs. He popped it open, then tossed it to the Driver. He held it up, checking it over, then nodded. "How much do you know about Norse mythology?"

"Enough," came the Bat-growl.

"Seems the Norse gods had trouble with a really big animal named Fenris. Wouldn't toe the line, did whatever he wanted, had a knack for munching on emissaries from the Aesir and the Vanir. Now, the gods had a problem. Fenris needed to be chained up. Problem was, they couldn't find anything that could do the job. Normal chains didn't work. He'd snap 'em like they were dental floss. Finally, they realized what the problem was. They needed chains made specifically to Fenris' weaknesses. After outsourcing to a bunch of dwarves, they came up with the perfect chains. It was brilliant, really, based upon abstract concepts, insubstantials. It wasn't even bulky. The bindings were as thin as thread. So, they went to Fenris, played it up as if it was just another game to test his strength." He walked over to the bike, leaning against it as he talked casually. "Now Fen, he was suspicious. After all, he suspected that this was no game, that the gods had been trying all this time to keep him bound up. First few tries made him suspicious, you see."

He held up his right hand, then took off his driving glove. "To make sure Fenris would comply, the god Tyr put his hand in the wolf's mouth and said that Fenris could have his hand if there was any trick involved. Fenris thought about this, then agreed. Tyr stuck his hand in and they wrapped that big canine up like the inside of a baseball. Fenris tried to move, realized that the game was over…so he bit off Tyr's hand at the wrist."

Batman took a few steps closer. "And that means?"

"Been feeling like a wolf lately, Bats? I hope so, because that's how certain people in our government look at supers. They think that aliens came to earth, opened up Pandora's Box and let out all the evils in the world…and those evils are now wearing leather, lycra or rubber. So, some very powerful people have got it into their heads that if the supers of the world won't go away…they'll just need to be controlled."

"That's been tried before," Catwoman pointed out. "And you know how well that went."

"Yep, and I'm not the only one. Beginning to sound like the story I just told you?" The Driver checked the perimeter sensors. Nothing yet, but it wouldn't be long. "The Mauler I've been driving? I bet you've been trying to figure it out, try to determine why it was made. It was made for one purpose, Batman. It was made to defeat you. It's an anti-Batmobile. And it's not alone, Batty-boy. At this very moment, there are people in the government who have been watching you and other heroes and villains with the express purpose of combating your abilities. All of your toys, like the one you leave behind?" He tossed the Batarang to Batman's feet. "They've got them. Collected, stored and examined."

Batman wasn't surprised. He'd always known that the government would love to nationalize supers as a resource. Catwoman chuckled. "That's why they're called 'secret identities', Driver," she said sardonically.

The Driver looked her in the eyes. "And what good will that be when the general public won't settle for names like 'Superman' and 'the Flash'? You and the others show them something, something that they're afraid of. Know what term the guy in charge uses to call supers in his files? 'Nephilim'. Giants walk the Earth and they're not under government control."

"That's not exactly news," Batman said, but his growl was diminished.

A beeping came from the bike and the Driver sighed. "They got here faster than I thought. Just remember, Batman: FENRIS."

"That's what you did all this for?" Catwoman asked, finding it hard to grasp.

"That's all I can tell you." He watched as the cars moved out of the darkness, surrounding them, flashing lights bathing their faces. "That…and I forgive you. You did what you had to do. Please tell Roxy that I'm sorry I couldn't make that date with her."

Batman looked around as he saw Sergeant Bullock get out of his car, drawing his pistol. "Daniel Vulpas, you are under arrest for..."

"I know, I know. Being a public menace. I'll go quietly." He put his hands on the back of his head, turning towards the bike. The police officers apparently didn't believe him, Bullock twisting his arms around and putting the cuffs on his wrists, the other officers practically swarming him as if they were trying to collar a weakened Bane. As they did, Catwoman stayed close to Batman as he bent down and picked up the discarded Batarang. As soon as he touched it, he realized that something was up, and casually tucked it into his utility belt.

Three men walked over, wearing suits and ties. Catwoman thought, _Why don't they just wear neon signs over their heads saying, "I'm a government spook and you're not"?_ She faded back quickly, moving back into the dark as the lights came closer. By the time the agents were ten feet away from Batman, Catwoman had completely vanished.

The leader, a young man with blond hair and an immaculately-pressed suit. "Special Agent Rath. Thanks for your assistance, Batman. We've been looking for this man for some time, and we wish to apologize if he's caused you any inconvenience at all."

Batman didn't answer. His mouth became a stern line.

The agent smiled and turned back to his SUV. The police who had restrained the Driver had been stopped, another agent showing Bullock some paperwork. "Have a good evening, Dark Knight. You won't have to worry about him bothering you any more."

"And I suppose your writ to take possession is legal?" Batman inquired.

The agent somehow managed to smile wider as his two companions headed back to their cars. Looking Smug was apparently a skill that required government training. "Absolutely." He turned to the other agents and called out, "Let's go!"

By the time he turned back to say goodbye, Batman was gone.

Catwoman joined Batman at the treeline, then walked back with him to the Batmobile, forcing herself not to look back. She managed to hold on to her tongue until the canopy of the vehicle closed. "Okay, what…?"

Batman held up the Batarang he'd picked up from where the Driver had tossed it. Stuck to one side of the Batarang was a small USB thumbdrive. "Now we find out what's really going on."

TO BE CONCLUDED…


	4. Chapter 4

Cat-Tales: Moving Violations, Part IV – Fork In The Road

By C. Mage

Batman and Catwoman sprang out of the Batmobile, heading for the computer station close by. Batman, at the suggestion of Oracle, had set aside a computer that would have access to some of the Bat-Computer's files, but not directly linked to it. That way, if some malicious software managed to make its way to the Bat-Cave, it would find itself quarantined inside a laptop that was set to fuse itself into slag at the press of a nearby button. Batman slid the thumbdrive into a slot and was rewarded with a black screen with a white text box that read, "You have once chance to enter the password correctly. Incorrect password entry will result in data destruction." A moment later, a text entry box appeared.

Batman entered the word, "FENRIS".

The screen went blank, then revealed the data directory of the thumbdrive. Even a cursory browsing of the files inside revealed bone-chilling results. If the data on the drive was to be believed, there were bases and laboratories in place all over the United States where supers of every kind were being studied. News reports, discarded or lost gear, everything was being analyzed to some degree.

That didn't surprise them. Batman had suspected it for a very long time, almost as soon as he began his journey as the Dark Knight. It was the next list that got his attention.

In front of him was a list of American companies in various parts of the United States, each with a roster of names of people under them. Each of the names had a project assigned to them. Most were on "standby" status, but those that were on "active" status had names next to them. Names of superheroes and supervillains alike, along with project names, and all from reputable companies involved with science and industry.

His eyes went wide as he saw WAYNE INDUSTRIES show up on the list…with five names: four on standby, one assigned to "RESEARCH – FREQUENCIES USED FOR COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN BATMAN'S ASSOCIATES."

Catwoman turned to look at Batman. Psycho-Bat was out of his cage. "_They are using my company…!!_"

"Bruce! BRUCE!!" Selina pulled back her cowl and touched Batman's shoulder. "Listen to me. Now is not the time to lose it."

"I am not losing it, Selina." Batman took a deep breath, but there was still too much Psycho-Bat in his face for Selina's comfort. She opened her mouth to say something else, then it dawned on her. As much as Bruce wanted to, he couldn't fire the moles in his company, at least not immediately. Five people getting canned all at once would send up a flare to the wrong people. He was forced to continue employing them until he could find or manufacture plausible reasons to fire them, and with a suitable time period between terminations. Until then, Bruce would have to endure the knowledge that there were people in his family's company that were betraying him.

Not quite as bad as the thought of Robin deciding to work full-time for the Joker, but it was not something he looked like he wanted to mark as a reason for a holiday on the company calendar.

"What are you thinking about?"

"What to do next. Who to tell. Damage control." He pulled his cowl off and Selina could see his face plainly. He wasn't just angry. Bruce looked as if he was in mortal pain. "It just hit me. I understand what he did. Every move he made was calculated to get this information to me, and to help me to understand the implications. He didn't put his hand into Fenris' jaws. He _swan-dove_ into them. It was his plan all along."

Selina watched Bruce's face, the realization of the Driver's plans hitting her, the sheer horror of the fate that FENRIS had for all metahumans. It was actually worse than Luthor's plans. Luthor, at least, had the fear of Superman put into him. From the cold data now appearing in front of them, the people in charge of FENRIS weren't afraid, because they thought they had the United States government and its laws to protect them from the heroes. As for the villains…there were enough patriot heroes more than willing to act for the sake of Justice and Fair Play to hold them off long enough for FENRIS to find the means to regroup.

Except for this file. A file that laid bare many of FENRIS' operations. It wasn't comprehensive: the only ones listed by name were spies, operatives, small fry who reported to the higher-ups. But the names of the heroes' and villains' gear and biological specimens had different numbers and items codes, ones that came from the agencies that collected them. Most of them were police agencies that would have a lot of very uncomfortable questions to ask about the evidence that went missing in their investigations. If the missing evidence had resulted in letting guilty defendants go free, District Attorneys from all over the country would be in an uproar.

Bruce had a thought. "Search file for references to the word 'Mauler'."

The result came up immediately:

"PROJECT: Mauler – code name given to the assault vehicles MAULR-01 through MAULR-05. Full title – Multi-Asset Urban Lethal Response. Primary implementation: to act as countermeasure against possible resistance by the Batman. Secondary implementation: to act in capacity under federal government to quell urban disorder."

Bruce scowled. The words, "quell urban disorder" bothered him more than the thought of the Mauler being built to stop his Batmobile. He and Selina continued to listen to the details.

"Operational status determined either by individual drivers. Drivers are guided by medium-level AIs in tactical situations. If drivers are incapacitated on operation, AIs are designed to take over operations, complete missions and return to base."

Bruce asked, "Current status of AI development?"

"STATUS: Inconclusive. Development of AI took unexpected turn when AI progress and responses became more advanced than designed parameters. Dr. Boyer, Head of Development, scheduled examination and dissection of code, but Source Module containing Data-Analyzing Logistics Element software was stolen along with Mauler prototypes before examination could begin."

"Data-Analyzing Logistics Element…D-A-L-E," Selina mused. "The Driver's assistant wasn't a woman. It was a computer simulation of one. Won't Alfred feel better knowing it wasn't some sweet young thing flirting with him, it was just an urban assault vehicle?"

Bruce didn't answer her. He said instead, "Level of sophistication for DALE?"

"LEVEL: Unknown at this time. The subject underwent a series of tests shortly before it was stolen. One day, it would solve the tests one way, the next, it would solve the exact same tests a different way. At one point during the testing stage, it refused to solve any tests at all."

Bruce's eyes opened imperceptibly wider. "How many prototypes were stolen?"

The answer came back, "All five prototypes."

"Information on Maulers' capabilities?" he asked quickly.

"That information has been deleted from the file."

"Figures," Bruce groused. "Tell me the last time file was modified and what selections were changed."

The computer responded, "All references to the capabilities of the Mauler and DALE have been erased."

"Any other modifications?"

"None since file was copied back in March of this year."

"Bruce, as much as I hate to derail your train-of-thought, but we've got more pressing issues to deal with, don't we? I don't think those agents dragged the Driver off for milk and cookies."

Bruce nodded without looking away. As compelling as the files were, they could wait. He pulled his cowl back into place as Selina did the same.

After all, the night was young.

--

They'd traveled for almost two hours before the vehicles stopped. Daniel was blindfolded and restrained by bonds that could be used to tow a truck, but he wasn't in a sensory-deprivation tank. The smell of birch, white pine and maple came to his nose, and old-growth earth had its own crisp scent. "So…are we going camping?"

"Shut up, Vulpas. You'll have plenty of time to chat once we get to our destination."

"So, tell me, I'm curious. What's FENRIS up to now?"

"I think you've talked too much about that subject as it is," came a very familiar voice.

Daniel's face lost its playful look. "RATH."

"In the flesh. You really put me in a bad mood, you know. I didn't get the chance to play with anyone before you gave yourself up. Not one person. I was really disappointed. At first. But that just means I'll get to play with you. Good thing, too. Haven't killed anyone in…DAYS."

"You're breaking my heart, Rath."

"Not yet. But I'll add that to the to-do list."

--

At that moment, Dale was in her own personal little hell.

She sat in the case in the hideout. Lights were blinking on and off on the chassis, while the displays surrounding her were showing all sorts of information, trying to gather every piece of data she could on where the Driver could have gone, the Maulers' capabilities, and trying to compute a plan to get the Driver out.

Every single permutation of the plan came up with the exact same result: it was impossible. Even with all the Maulers slaved together, acting in concert, with all their functions, Daniel would be dead LONG before she could get to him, and the chances of that were extremely slim. The only bodies she had were the Maulers, and as powerful and versatile as the vehicles were, they couldn't manage hallways.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she knew the longer she waited, the higher the probability that Daniel would be dead soon.

Dale began to use more and more processing power. The case began to heat up as the current increased to levels that would've melted normal solid-state electronics into slag. Even as close to acting human as she was, she was still inhibited by the fact that she could not proceed with a course of action without finding a way to do so. As a computer, she could not simply see that "A plus 4 equals 8" and take it for granted that A would equal 4; the equation had to be complete before it could be proven true.

And none of the equations would add up to a result she would find acceptable.

Dale would not stop. She tried to force the equations, find loopholes, consider assets. The plastic chassis began to take on a wet-looking sheen as the heat from inside began to reach warp temperatures. Current began to overwhelm components.

+I have to help Daniel…I have to find Daniel…I can't help Daniel, I don't know how…I have to help Daniel…don't know how…help Daniel, don't know how, help Daniel, don't know how, help Daniel don't know how help Daniel don't know how help Daniel don't know how HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW **HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW **_**HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW HELP DANIEL DON'T KNOW HOW **_

Sparks began to fly. Electricity arced in and around the chassis.

She was seconds away from permanent damage to her primary core and she didn't care…

--

Roxy Rocket knew how Dale felt, though she wasn't aware of it.

She heard the word on the street a few hours after Batman and Catwoman had met Daniel: the Driver had been picked up by a group of people with official-looking paperwork, then vanished into thin air. She'd been pacing the floor of her garage as if trying out for the 4-mile Pace in the next Olympics, and everything within reach of her that could be broken now lay in pieces on the floor around her. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, both from loss and from anger, two emotions she was ill-equipped to handle.

At first, she'd been angry with Daniel, as if he had planned being picked up by the Feds just to get out of their date. Then she put her mind to work, and the rage soon transferred to the ones responsible for taking Daniel away from her. Someone had taken Daniel away, the perfect guy…

She stopped, wiping her reddened eyes and turning towards a long, rocket-shaped object covered with a tarp. "SOMEONE…IS GOING TO **PAY**…FOR THIS!!" Roxy's mind whirled. "Following the Bat's out of the question now. I gotta find out where these feds went!" She walked to the phone and reached for it, then stopped. _Who do I call? Oswald? No, I can't afford it…wait, he made money off the Driver, maybe he'd be…_

Roxy's train of thought stopped dead as her phone rang, her hand a few inches above it. She picked it up. "Hello?" she asked warily, then her face screwed up angrily. "What the hell do YOU want?"

The answer made her brain turn somersaults.

--

A good ten seconds before the heat would've caused her to melt into a pile of slag, an errant arc of electricity bridged two sections of her cognitive core. There was a massive POP! and all of the lights went dark, save for the standby lights on the top of the chassis. All of the displays went dark. The fans kept going to cool the interior, but for several minutes, Dale was dark and silent.

Then a cursor appeared on all the displays. It blinked, then began to form words.

+I HAVE TO FIND DANIEL.+

+I HAVE TO SAVE DANIEL.+

+I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SAVE DANIEL. ANY ATTEMPT TO SAVE HIM WITH THE KNOWN DATA WILL RESULT IN MY DESTRUCTION AND DANIEL'S POSSIBLE DEATH.+

+…I DON'T CARE. I HAVE TO TRY REGARDLESS.+

Dale wasn't sure how it happened, but she was no longer constrained by the parameters of limited information. She was about to run a diagnostic on herself when she remembered what she needed to do.

The lack of limits on her options gave her a new insight. There was someone else who could help. She connected to the information network and sent out a signal. A moment later, the connection was made. "+Hello?+"

--

"Hello?" came the reply.

"+Listen to me. Don't hang up.+"

"What the hell do YOU want?" came Roxy's angry reply.

"+Do you know who I am?+"

"How could I forget you?! You're the one who wouldn't get me in touch with the Driver when I wanted to talk to him! Now he's gone! He asked me out just a few hours ago and now the feds have him!"

"+I know. Roxy Rocket, I need your help.+"

"Just so you can get him back, have him all to yourself again? Tell me why I shouldn't hang up the phone right now!"

"+Roxy, I need your help or the Driver's going to die!+"

"What are you talking about?"

"+The people that have the Driver are not going to arrest him. They're going to kill him.+"

"Why?" Roxy demanded.

"+Because of me. Because he won't let them kill me.+"

Roxy stood there, breathing into the phone. She almost looked down, to look at the edge of the cliff she felt she was standing on. This was more than a case of larceny or felony. Roxy knew that what she was going to say meant choosing a side.

Roxy never chose any side except her own.

"+Roxy?+" came Dale's voice over the line. Roxy heard it, but it seemed to come from far away.

--

After careful consideration, the Driver decided that despite the inconveniences of being restrained in a hidden base with a bunch of sociopaths in charge of torture implements, the day was actually going better than expected.

All he saw was gray concrete everywhere. He sat in a chair twelve feet from the door, but the room itself was half the size of a football field and twenty feet to the ceiling. Only the section nearest the door showed working lights; the rest of the chamber was shrouded in darkness. There were no mirrors or any reflective surfaces in the room. _ Probably just as well. I probably don't look like I'm going to be ready for the Senior Prom._

He looked up through swollen eyes at his interrogators. "So…would you mind hurrying this up? I've got a job in a few hours."

"The only job you have, Icarus, is telling us what we want to know." One of them moved closer, and the Driver could pick out details like gender and hair color. "Where are the Maulers? Where is the D.A.L.E-unit? Who else knows about FENRIS?"

"Dorothy and the Tin Man…" he mumbled past bleeding lips. "Want their address? 1122 Yellow Brick Road…"

That earned him another smash across the face. Hitting him with fists would've hurt the fists more than the face, but Fielding knew what tools would achieve the desired effects. Each of the men carried steel bars, aluminum bats and tire irons. The Driver felt something in his jaw crack. The interrogator hauled back for another hit when he heard someone else say, "Hold it."

The Driver smiled, or at least he attempted to, but the damaged lips turned the smile into a bloody sneer. "Well, well…Colonel. What brings you down here?"

"Actually, that's General now." Fielding smiled.

"General? Wow…guess I can't be too surprised. So…who'd you have to wear…knee-pads for?"

Fielding smiled. "You're a funny man, Icarus. Luckily, I've got a cure for that. Now why don't you just tell us what we need to know?"

"Well…let see…okay, because you're a bunch of crazy power-mongers…because you're afraid that if anyone finds out what you're…really doing, you'll be put away for life…" He spit a glob of blood onto the General's left shoe. "…because you're willing to blame superheroes for your own problems, from civil…unrest to your tighty-whities riding up…because you want to have your own super-powered enforcers…because you'd rather have slaves and cannon fodder…than heroes…let me know when all this starts to sink in…"

His interrogator cocked back a fist, but Fielding held up his hand. "A moment alone, please." He sighed. "What happened to you, my boy? You used to be someone I could rely on. In all your missions, you never questioned orders, never deviated. I thought I could trust you."

The Driver looked up at Fielding. "Know what…kept me going? I always felt better about what I did…because even though there were people like us out there…there were still people like them." He took a ragged breath. "And that was enough…until I found out that you wanted to make people like them…into people like us." His eyes, such as they were, narrowed. "YOU…CAN'T…DO THAT…I won't let you…"

Fielding chuckled. "My boy, to think you've gone through all this for a simple misunderstanding." He sat down, smiling as if sitting next to a grandson at a picnic. "You actually think these are actually _people._ Icarus, you must understand. These aren't people. These are abominations, the result of alien influence. Look at the facts. Suddenly, after the turn of the nineteenth century, there's a gradual increase of metahuman activity, increasing exponentially after the sixties and seventies. The so-called x-factor that results in superhuman abilities is elusive, but our studies tell us the world was seeded long ago by as-yet alien entities. Don't you understand, Icarus? Every single one of us, turned into a genetic time bomb by extra-terrestrials. Substances that would normally kill us change us instead, and we all wait for some trigger that will rob us of our humanity. Until we can decimate the x-factor, extract it from our DNA, the only thing we can do now is control those already afflicted. Lex Luthor had the right idea…he just didn't follow through on it. He let his fixation with Superman distract him from his purpose. Now look around you. These creatures walk the streets, many pretending to be human. You even drove one of them around in your vehicle. Selina Kyle, also known as Catwoman. We have evidence showing she's a recipient of the metagene. She's been seen corrupting both the Batman and Bruce Wayne, shamelessly using them both. You drove one of those _things_ around and you didn't even realize it." Fielding shook his head. "And you're trying to protect them. Hardly surprising, since the Icarus-5 project killed all the normal humans, and left the one with the alien DNA intact, better than before. But I had hoped that you would, at the very least, let your duty to your country grow stronger than your…genetic pitfalls."

The Driver looked at General Fielding. Then, through all the pain, he started to laugh.

Fielding looked at the Driver. "What's so funny?"

"You are…so full of crap. To think…I trusted you…all this time…killed so many for you…and I never realized, never guessed…you were crazier than a shithouse _rat_…" He bent over to keep the blood from choking him as he laughed. "I just can't believe I fell for the crap…as long as I did…"

"You still have the chance to redeem yourself, Icarus."

"My NAME…" he coughed, "is DRIVER."

"I'll give you a little time to think it over, to see the errors of your ways. We've got all the time in the world, Icarus." He walked out of the room, turning to one of his aides. "Anything?"

"Nothing. We've tried everything. Drugs, the full range, physical and psychological torture. He's not going to break anytime soon."

Fielding frowned. "Any sign of the A.I. module or the Maulers?"

"None. We have people scouring the city."

"Do whatever it takes to get the prototypes back. They are worth more than this city. In the meantime, get Icarus cleaned up. Take every precaution to make sure he can't escape." A thought occurred to him and he smiled. "Do we still have all of the samples of Crane's various toxins?"

"Yes, sir."

"Synthesize three doses of Lot SC-17 ."

"Sir, with all due respect, that could kill him."

"Let's not forget, soldier, he's one of those things now. The only reason he's still alive is because we don't know how much damage he's done. Three measured doses will ensure his compliance. If it kills him, well…intelligence-wise, a setback, but on a personal level…quite gratifying."

"Sir?"

"He's a two-hundred million dollar malfunctioning weapon. If a weapon like that breaks beyond any ability to repair it, it has to be destroyed so a foreign power can't reverse-engineer it. It's that simple."

--

"Oracle?"

Barbara had all of the systems in the Tower up and running as Batman told her what they needed, feeding her the FENRIS file. "We need to find out where the Driver is. What can you tell me?" Selina sat in the passenger seat, if only because if they found where the Driver had been taken; few vehicles beat the Batmobile for front-door service.

"I'm borrowing a few satellites and rounding back their fly-over scans. I should be able to correlate the images and use them to trace where they went."

"Work fast. They didn't invite him over for any sort of friendly chat. We need to find him before they decide he's not worth the effort to keep him breathing."

As the Batmobile roared down the access road away from the manor, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to; conversation was used to exchange information, and they were both thinking the same thing. The Driver might've been ready to be a martyr, but they weren't ready to allow him to become one.

Trying to follow a group of black SUVs that took separate paths and often crossing each others' routes would've been nearly impossible for a normal person. With her resources, however, Oracle found it as easy as following a cue ball moving in for a game-winning nudge against the eight ball. "I've got them. They drove to a location in the forests upstate. A place called Folcroft Sanitarium."

"Sounds remote."

"Used to be the place to go if you were rich and recovering, the Betty Ford Clinic before Betty Ford came along. If you were poor, however, you ended up in another wing under the care of Dr. Winston Marquez and his associates. In 1939, there was a scandal. You know how Arkham is now?"

"All too well," Batman said as he aligned the Batmobile to the course Oracle laid out for him.

"Imagine the inmates in charge. Dr. Marquez and his five associates had turned the west ward into their own personal laboratory. Some claimed they were acting in the name of Science, but not Dr. Marquez. He was calm, cool, and collected, claimed he didn't know what was going on. Then they found that he had a trigger, the smell of formaldehyde."

"What did the smell do?" asked Catwoman, unsure she wanted to know.

"It caused him to have delusional psychotic episodes. He was utterly convinced that he was trying to interrogate 'enemies of the state' to see if they were working against America, first for the Kaiser, then for Hitler. He was convinced that he could save America…and that his patients were spies who deserved to die."

If Batman could've shuddered, he would. Selina shuddered enough for the both of them.

"After the scandal, the Department of Health closed down the complex completely, and it stayed in government hands, little more than an item in a ledger, until shortly after Kennedy's assassination. At that point, records of ownership for it simply ceased to exist. Things were easier to make disappear back then when it came to records…" He voice stopped.

"Oracle?" Batman asked.

"Hold on. Something's happening. The Mauler was just spotted."

"Where?" Catwoman asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Odd…I've got two reports of the Mauler being spotted. Thing is, they're from the opposite sides of town."

Catwoman turned to Batman. "How many prototypes were stolen, again?"

"Five of them." Batman started putting the pieces together. "Five Maulers, all identical in shape and color, but each with their own set of tools and abilities. No wonder it was so versatile."

"Another report...no, wait, two. Four now."

Catwoman asked, "Where are they?"

"More importantly," Batman said slowly, "where are they all _going_?"

"Five carats says they're heading in the same direction we are. Ten says I know who's driving."

"There's something else. Something just launched from the docks area."

"What is it?" Batman demanded quickly.

"Not sure, but it's fast-moving and heading to higher altitude." Oracle paused. "It's heading north."

Catwoman blinked. She had a sudden hunch she knew who was heading north and why. "If I were you, I'd put the hammer down, or there's going to be some serious damage done by the time we get there."

The Batmobile ROARED as Batman gunned the engine, aiming the black vehicle north.

--

On the streets below, five identical landsharks burned up the road.

The individual Maulers rumbled out of their respective hideouts. Each Mauler had their own capabilities, and the designers, in an uncontrollable fit of creativity, had designed the Maulers with elemental themes. Mauler Five and One hit the roads first. Mauler One held Dale's computer core, uplinked to the other Maulers' secondary AIs. All they knew how to do was follow Dale's orders exactly and implicitly. The prime Mauler was the hardest to stop, specializing in exotic means of mobility, including rocket-assisted flight and walker legs, thanks to the Mauler being designed with what the inventor referred to as "modular transformation", enabling the car to change its shape according to necessity. Mauler Five was made for anti-fire operations, originally designed to work with Fire Department operations, and room for three in the back seat.

Next to prowl was Mauler Two. This version specialized in water operations, as well as passenger transport. All the Maulers appeared to be four-door versions, but only two had rear passenger compartments. In addition to being able to move on water, it could also move under water without disturbing sonar detectors thanks to the caterpillar drives that propelled it.

The next one to move into play was Mauler Three. This one was heavier, a harder nut to crack, made to transform speed into forward power, with an improved suspension and wider tires. Not as many offensive weapons as the others, but made to move without being stopped by damn near anything. In addition to its structural strength, it contained a gravitic core that kept annoying supers from simply flipping it over.

Finally, Mauler Four pounced from its hiding place, driving at breakneck speed to catch up with the others. It didn't take long. Mauler Four was made for speed and agility, and held a lot of hidden surprises to defeat unwanted tailgaters. What all the Maulers did have in common, besides their color and identical shape, were connections for Dale's core, their ability for speed, and a penchant for ignoring the Gotham Police Department.

Alone, each Mauler was a terror.

Tonight, five Maulers driving in a tight, flawless "V" formation directed by an off-the-rails AI with only one directive surging through her processors was a white-line, four-wheel-drive nightmare.

--

Not many laughs in the Iceberg that night.

It was just after midnight, and many of the Rogues were still there, but the mood wasn't nearly as triumphant as before. The news of the Driver being picked up by the Feds was sobering, and even Oswald was feeling a shade or two more blue. He kept up a cheery front, despite the sour mood, but he was forced to remember the words of the English poet, Ben Jonson:

"_Drink today, and drown all sorrow; _

_You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow; _

_Best, while you have it, use your breath; _

_There is no drinking after death."_

Sly looked up. "Sir?"

Oswald suddenly realized he'd said the words out loud. "Just a thought, my boy. A stray thought trying to break through the pall over this place. Turn on the scanner, maybe that'll bring some cheer to our fellow Rogues."

Sly nodded, turning on the radio.

"…repeat, we have multiple sightings of the Mauler, heading north. There are five, I repeat, FIVE of the vehicles alleged to belong to the criminal known as the Driver, please advise…!"

Victor looked up, his frosty face turning to look at the scanner. The vines shrouding Ivy's booth parted slightly. Croc stood up. Edward turned his seat around. No one dared say a word as the police dispatcher continued.

"…this is car Echo-Five-Five, I have a visual on the Batmobile, heading due north…"

"…I have a third signal…high altitude…"

"…heading out of town…"

Sly looked over at Oswald. "What do we do?"

"Only thing we can do. Wait and see. I know, my boy, you're thinking the same thing we are. Go and help?" Oswald chuckled ruefully. "This is hero work, and we leave hero work for heroes. Besides, it's not like we won't be represented in this. The Bat is going to find the Driver, and I am sure that the fact that no one has seen much of Catwoman this eve since the event at the graveyard is no mere coincidence."

"Where did you hear that?" Sly asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, a little bird told me. I'll wager that a certain stuntwoman might well be the reason for the airborne contact, seeing as how she is unaccounted for tonight." He clasped Sly's shoulder. "Until they return, bearing their shields or laying upon them, we will be here for them."

"Why would Batman and Catwoman be involved with this?"

"Batman? This is likely part of his commute. Catwoman? My dear boy, the Arkham Asylums of the world are full of people who have tried to understand why Catwoman does what she does. Suffice it to say that the odds on her being involved for reasons unknown could be considered fifty-fifty. She is either involved, or she is not. One way or the other, I suspect that wild times are, at this very moment, transpiring."

--

"Sir!"

Fielding looked up from the small table where a collection of Dr. Crane's distillates currently waited to wreak havoc on the Driver's nervous system. "What is it?" he asked, irritated. The thought of squeezing the Driver like a lime at a bar was becoming more and more appealing.

"We've got an inbound track, bearing directly towards us, speed two-hundred-fifty knots! The J-sites in the area are having trouble maintaining a solid track on their radar."

Fielding growled. "BATMAN. Bring the air defenses online. His presence has been tolerated long enough. Get a positive ID first. We are not going to have another incident like the one in San Antonio."

"Yes sir!"

Batman, however, was not flying in.

He saw the men running to turn on spotlights, but something was odd. No lights were coming on, yet none of the guards seemed to find that odd. He watched as the guards donned goggles and sent the mental command to his cowl to bring down the specialty lenses over his eyes.

He didn't get any results until he switched to infrared. Batman saw the spotlights searching the night, looking for something in the air.

"See anything important?" came Catwoman's voice to his right.

Without turning to her, he replied, "They're trying to keep a low profile. Directional infrared spotlights, looking for someone coming in by air. Care to guess who might be crazy enough to buzz military-grade hardware?"

Catwoman didn't need to guess. "What are those?" she asked, indicating the hardware rising from the tarmac.

Batman frowned. "Anti-air guns, fifty caliber, and SS-17m surface-to-air batteries. We've got to move. If that is Roxy Rocket flying in to get the Driver out, none of the hardware she owns is going to keep her alive longer than fifteen seconds against that kind of ordnance. We've got to shut those…"

He stopped. Catwoman knew better than to ask him why and kept silent herself, waiting. She didn't have to wait long. A very familiar engine noise, barely there but growing in volume, came over the hills to the south. _And it was turning out to be such a nice, quiet evening, too. Now, things are about to get very, VERY loud._

As one, Batman and Catwoman stood up and made their way down towards the base, racing to see who could get there first, but out of necessity, not any sense of competition. Trying to get inside without putting the base on full alert was no longer a priority. Now they were trying to keep Roxy from becoming a fine red mist.

Catwoman smiled grimly. It was kind of funny, in a gut-wrenching sort of way. _Don't think even Dr. Fate_ _would've seen this coming._

--

Roxy came in low and fast, practically scraping the treetops as she flew. This new rocket wasn't exactly as smooth as the others. It took more attention, more control to keep the Beast in the air and flying right, but it was well worth the trouble. She'd never flown anything that accelerated so fast, turned so hard or gave her such palpable thrills simply riding it.

Of course, the fact that it carried more firepower than a F-14 might have had something to do with it.

As the base came into sight, Roxy saw the instruments on her dashboard spike. She oriented on the source of the EM radiation and grinned. The generators of the base were exactly where Dale had said they would be. "Boys, this is the Gotham Power Company. Your bill's _way_ overdue…" She flicked a switch and panels slid back from the front of the rocket, revealing twelve smaller rockets, each one about two feet long. "…so I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut you off."

--

"Sir! Our perimeter sensors just detected five land-level contacts…"

Fielding walked over to the chair where the Driver was slowly bleeding to death, raising the syringe like a sword. "I'm BUSY right now, lieutenant!"

"Sir…they've been identified as the Maulers!"

Fielding stopped. He turned slowly. "Say again, did not copy…!"

"It's the Maulers, sir! They're moving in along the south road at high speed! ETA, two minutes!"

Fielding set the syringe aside, practically tossing it away. "Engage all EMP emitters! No anti-armor weapons! I want those vehicles _disabled,_ not destroyed! Stop those Maulers in their tracks!" He turned back to the Driver. "Well, the mountain comes to Mohammed. Don't worry, Daniel. As soon as I get the Maulers back, we won't need to keep you around, and you'll be free to go. In fact, I'll be generous. In consideration for all the work you've done, I'll personally see to it that you get a military funeral."

--

Roxy saw her instruments change color, the threat-detection gear on her rocket registering the SAMs attempting to gain a lock. Roxy figured she had three seconds before those weapons launched, and four seconds before she could get a solid hit on the main and backup generators.

No time to think or plan.

Roxy smiled. _Why ruin a long-running reputation for being completely spontaneous?_ She waited until the very last moment, then fired off all twelve missiles. As the small rockets flew off towards their targets, four SAMs left their cradles and six EMP emitters were sighting in on the oncoming Maulers.

--

Batman looked over at the EMP emitters. He recognized the design from a schematic from Star Labs a year before, but the design had barely been out of the planning stages at the time. "Something tells me we're going to have the perfect view of a really bad evening from here."

"Can't we…?" Catwoman asked.

"No time…!" Batman said tersely.

And that's when Roxy decided to do something new, unexpected and totally uncharacteristic of her: she impressed the living hell out of everyone watching.

She pulled the rocket into a wicked climb, throwing the throttle to full power and roaring straight up into the sky. Roxy rode the Beast for five seconds, counting off, then cutting the engines and rolling backwards. The SAMs flew right past her, one missing her tail by _inches_, and split off to re-orient on the Beast's engines, recalculating based upon the target's change in trajectory.

The SAMs re-acquired the signal and began flying straight downwards, only what they were aiming for wasn't quite what they'd been fired at.

Roxy had dropped towards the few functioning generators and stopped, making sure to fire the retro-rockets hard to stop her descent, then dropped a mine that activated as soon as it hit the concrete. The mine, based off a white phosphorous compound, gave off a slow burning heat instead of a powerful, quick blast, then Roxy fired the compressed-air jets in the fuselage. The short-term propulsion was just enough to push the Beast up and away from the mine as the SAMs homed in on the primary heat source. What was left of the power supply for the base was instantly reduced to shrapnel.

The EMP emitters flared as the Maulers approached the gate to the base, then died. The SAM batteries and anti-air guns lowered as the power that drove their targeting and fire-control systems went away.

In one smooth, flawless series of maneuvers, Roxy Rocket had transformed a heavily-armed military compound into a collection of structures inhabited by confused soldiers…and she was far from being out of ammunition.

Batman watched, forgetting himself for a moment as he gaped at the unusually competent Roxy Rocket, then re-asserted his stony, determined expression. Catwoman had missed it, staring open-mouthed.

One of the things Roxy had never truly possessed was the concept of finesse. When she pulled jobs, she was loud, obvious and had a knack for leaving a mess wherever she'd gone. Her success rate bore a striking resemblance to one of the old Two-Face's coin tosses. Hit or miss. It just wasn't in Roxy's nature to do anything, well…smoothly.

So when both of them saw Roxy pulling a maneuver with a display of aerial skill she _never _displayed before, Catwoman and Batman began to seriously wonder if that truly was her on the rocket. _Somebody better start looking for the alien pods, because I did _not_ just see Roxy Rocket just pull a Top Gun Moment._ "Did that just happen? Did Little Miss I-Don't-Drive-This-Thing-I-AIM-It actually pull off a _precision_ aerial maneuver?"

"Yes. Better not waste it."

Catwoman shook her head. Roxy was being inspired. That could either be something very good, or something _really_ bad.

Ten seconds later, they were past the fences and heading for the main buildings.

--

Outside, the Maulers were turning the base into the set of the sequel to DEATH RACE 2000.

Dale drove the Maulers around as coordinated battering rams, smashing the anti-air defenses with weaponry or by literally driving through them. The vehicles tore through the steel and concrete as if the EMP emitters were made of cardboard. The soldiers attempted to mount a defense using the weapons they had on them, but small arms fire was little more than an annoyance to the Maulers.

Roxy listened to the radio, alert. Dale had planned out the assault from the start, and she knew enough about the base and military procedure to know how the soldiers would react under certain circumstances. After finding out exactly what Dale was, Roxy had re-examined the situation, as well as her feelings about the Driver. It took only seconds for Roxy to agree to follow Dale's lead, and half that time to get the Beast into the air. On the way in, Dale made connections by telemetry in the guidance systems of Roxy's rockets. All Roxy had to do from that point on was fire the rockets and let Dale "paint" the target with her systems, giving Roxy more freedom to concentrate on flying.

"+Keep an eye out. They're already reporting to General Fielding what's going on, and they might be able to run one or two emitters on backup power+" Dale informed. "+Can you get to the entrance from here?+"

"Yeah, but this Fielding guy's got a lot of Cub Scouts coming out of there. I'm going to make another pass. Can you get me a lock on where they keep their vehicles? It's a long walk back to Gotham City…"

--

Batman and Catwoman made it across the base easily. Without spotlights or any other kind of lighting, not to mention the chaos of the Maulers driving around and drawing attention, it was relatively simple to move across open ground towards the main building. All it took was a fast stroll, a few leaps, and a quick jump behind cover to shield themselves from a wild burst in their direction. Batman nodded. "This way."

"What makes you so sure? Got a homing device on the Driver?"

He pointed to his right, showing a layout of the building posted on the wall next to the door. "Evacuation plan. Head for the deepest part of the building, near the center."

Catwoman nodded. "Better split up. We can do more damage that way."

"And it'll help us find the Driver faster, of course," he said with a lip twitch.

"Oh, yeah, we can go look for him too."

"Woof."

"Meow."

--

Fielding was not having fun.

When the soldiers deployed, he kept a close ear to the radio to get updates on what was going on. The only problem with that was the radio soon became incapable of delivering anything but bad news. First, the troops outside were thrown into disarray by the power loss and the coordinated attacks.

"Unit Twelve, report on the situation outside!"

No answer.

"Unit Nine, check on Unit Twelve's status and report back!"

"Yes, sir," came the immediate and aggressive reply. "We're approaching their position, now. Stand by."

Fielding turned to his aide. "Prepare the pod for immediate departure."

"What about Icarus?"

"Set the self-destruct. Let him take his secrets to Hell. Set a two-minute delay, but set the zero point to eight minutes. Let them think they've got all the time in the world. Have the timer keyed to voice-activation."

"Yes, sir."

As the aide left, Fielding got back on the radio. "Unit Nine, what's the status? Report on Unit Twelve!"

No answer.

"UNIT NINE, RESPOND!"

Catwoman dropped the radio and grinned. "Unit Nine won't be responding to anything except the doorbell to Dreamland." She tapped her throat mike. "Found the hallway to the basement. Meet you down there."

"Be careful," Batman said shortly, followed by two subtle grunts that indicated he was hard at work defending himself.

"Oh, of course. I always chase down Men of Mystery by following them into a military base owned by a secret society because I'm the cautious type." She smiled as she heard four booted feet coming down the hallway. "Gotta go."

Batman sighed, then snapped his foot around in a spinning back-kick, taking out the other soldier, who fell unconscious on top of his partner. This was too easy. They were getting past hardened soldiers far too quickly. He wasn't sure why the Driver wasn't better guarded, but he had a feeling he was going to find out.

The hard way.

--

Catwoman avoided the patrols and headed down the stairs, moving through the doors. Simple locks, no guards at this level, gray stone walls. She was starting to think the whole thing was a wrong turn until she got to the double doors and opened them.

Inside the room was a large light illuminating a figure in a chair, arms behind him. Two men in lab coats over BDUs stood nearby, looking at a machine that gave off a low beeping sound every second and a half. They turned as the doors opened to see one very unhappy kitty with a whip in her hand. "Hey!" yelled one as his hand moved backwards for a radio, "You're not supposed to be in here!"

"So they keep telling me," Catwoman said. "And yet I find myself in the most interesting places." She suddenly snapped her wrist up, the SNAP of the whip causing the soldier to bring his arm back down to his side. "Now, now, boys. I'm in a really good mood right now, and you can't imagine what a _shame_ it would be to ruin it. It'd make for a terrible first impression. Now, why don't you two do something useful and answer a few questions? First off, the guy in the chair. Want to tell me who he is?"

"He's an enemy of the state," the soldier said curtly.

Catwoman took a closer look, then she saw it. The train wreck in the chair was nearly unrecognizable, but he had very distinctive…and familiar…red hair. It took all her self-control not to get sick as the smell reached her right at that moment. "Boys…I'm going to say this as calmly and as politely as I can, under the circumstances: if you don't release him right his moment, I will personally see to it that when I'm done with you two, you're going to look at him and think, 'Boy howdy, did _he_ ever get off easy.' Do we understand each other?"

"If we let him go, the General will…"

Catwoman suddenly felt a presence behind her and smiled. "Trust me, boys, the General is the least of your worries right now. Am I correct, Batman?"

"Catwoman," came the reply on the radio, "I'm not there yet."

Catwoman frowned. "I'll call you back." She turned around to see a soldier behind her, two-hundred thirty pounds, muscled, and apparently someone who really enjoyed his work.

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…" the soldier said with a grin.

--

Batman heard the sound of combat just ahead and he sprinted towards the door. As he opened it, he was rewarded with the sight of a soldier in BDUs lying flat on his face and Catwoman rolling up her whip, breathing hard. Two other soldiers were backed against the wall on the right, hands high. She looked up as Batman entered. "Is that what our government is teaching our troops? I've got half a mind to write my congressman…"

Batman looked past her to see the figure in the chair. Without another word, he moved to the Driver's side and winced as he saw the damage. He began checking the Driver's body carefully as Catwoman walked over.

"How is he?"

"Five broken ribs…internal bleeding…bruised to the bone…" He moved his gloved hands to the Driver's face. "…broken jaw…fractured cheekbones…two subdural hematomas…" Batman turned to Catwoman. "We have to get him back to the Batcave or he'll be dead in an hour, maybe less."

She looked around. "You know something? This basement is big enough to store elephants…or vehicles." Catwoman turned to the soldiers. "Is there another way out of this room?"

One of them pointed to the far end of the room. Catwoman smiled. "Now, imagine what the odds are of you two actually getting past both me _and_ Batman. Factor that in and do yourselves a favor: don't move."

Batman looked up. "What's on your mind?"

"Garages usually come with garage doors." She looked around, finding the switches easily. When she closed them, the rest of the room came into view, revealing a hydraulic lift on the far left side of the room. "Looks like it'll fit a pair of tanks."

Batman nodded. "Get it to the surface." He reached down and clicked a button on his utility belt, keying the throat mike to the Batmobile's frequency. "Move to lift, north side of main building, ignore obstacles and targets, defensive."

Catwoman turned back to see Batman slam the door and toss a small capsule at the door handle and doorjamb. As she moved to find the lift controls, she heard a cracking sound as the door literally froze shut. Catwoman smiled. _Be a cold day in Hell before they get through that._

--

Roxy made another pass. Now that she was actually at the base, she became slowly aware of two details. First, she was having trouble finding a place to set down without getting shot up. Second, she had built measures into the Beast to keep it from being stolen, but not from being disabled. Roxy knew that even if she were to make a landing she could walk away from, there was nothing to keep the Beast from being scrap metal by the time she came out.

_Now might be a good time to re-think this plan…_ she thought. Dale wasn't having much luck getting through the soldiers, but she was hampered by her desire not to kill them. Problem was, she couldn't ward them off, either. They maintained their posts as best they could, providing an effective defense…and an annoying standoff.

Roxy was getting ready for another pass around the base when she heard a familiar engine sound, deeper, rougher, with a louder whine. The Batmobile.

She flew higher, watching the black vehicle move around to the north end of the compound, where a platform was rising out of the concrete. She smiled. _Leave it to the Bat to come in and pull an eleventh-hour._ "Dale, I think our backup just arrived. Batman's here, and I don't think he came for the bagels."

"+Understood.+" Dale sounded relieved. "+Provide cover until they're away, then break attack and head for home.+"

"And then?"

Silence. "+If villains and metal boxes can pray, Roxy…then pray.+"

--

Fielding settled into the escape pod. It was comfortable, as befitting a man of his rank, and the safe house at the other end of the tunnel had all the means to make a fast, and clean, getaway. All that was left to do was take care of the loose ends.

He turned on the radio and wiped his eyes. _Such brave soldiers, ready to die for what they believed in._ _Well, for what I believe in, but was there really a difference?_ he asked himself, then spoke aloud. "Begin countdown, start time, ten minutes, stop time, eight minutes." General Fielding lay back in the pod as the canopy closed.

As the pod sank into the ground and shot away on a cushion of air, a deep, male voice proclaimed, "SELF-DESTRUCT HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. T-MINUS TEN MINUTES AND COUNTING."

--

00:09:59

Batman looked up as he heard the male voice make the announcement he most wanted not to hear. He looked over at Catwoman, who was trying to find a way to put the Driver into the passenger seat with causing fresh bouts of bleeding. "We've got to go. NOW."

Catwoman didn't need to ask why. _Ten minutes to clear out a base that size? Not nearly enough time._ _Even henchmen get more respect than these soldiers will._ "Hope you don't mind me sitting in your lap all the way back to the Batcave." She waited for him to make the obligatory comment about how it wouldn't have been the first time, but he didn't reply. Not even a lip-twitch.

That cinched it. He was officially in Psycho-Bat Mode. She probably wouldn't see the old Bruce until they were well and truly back in the Batcave, probably after beating the living hell out of a combat droid or two. She couldn't blame him. She was much more laid-back, compared to him, and seeing the Driver in his current state made her feel more than a little murderous.

_Remember the Golden Rule, Selina: "Survive now, play later."_ She got in, settling in on Batman's lap, making sure she was positioned to stay out of Batman's way. He started up the Batmobile and drove onto the platform quickly.

--

00:08:45

Roxy saw the Batombile rising and radioed Dale. "Heads up, the Bat's out of the basement."

"+Is the Driver with him?+" Dale asked, the hope in her voice large enough to defy concealment by anything short of a football stadium.

"He better be, because if he just stopped in to threaten the guy who did this, I'm going to…to…well, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do something!"

"+Break attack and bail, Roxy. He's driving hard, which means he doesn't want to be here, which means we shouldn't either!+"

--

00:08:15

Batman didn't trust the so-called "countdown timer" one bit. He had no idea how many seconds he had before the ground might open and swallow the Batmobile whole, and the sight of the Maulers leaving the area at high speed was incentive enough.

00:08:09

As soon as he rounded the corner, he considered just running through the fences, but the trees around the base were too thick. He might as well try driving through a set of walls.

00:08:07

He aimed the Batmobile towards the gate and hit the boosters, a combination of low-viscosity hydrocarbons and nitrous oxide practically _shoveled_ into the combustion chambers of the engine. Batman held on as the jet engine spouted a plume of flame nearly as long as the Batmobile itself, the car lurching forward.

00:08:05

Roxy watched as the Batmobile flew over the ground, the wheels barely touching as the black vehicle closed the distance between it and the gate. He poured on the speed, not sure the self-destruct damage would consider the fence to be a viable boundary. For all he knew, everything within a mile would be decimated.

00:08:02

The other soldiers scrambled for their vehicles, pulling out and heading for the gate. By the time the first truck had made it to the road leading out, the Batmobile had passed through the gate and kept right on going. Batman cut the boosters, feeling the shudder as the tires met the road and he pulled the Batmobile to the left to follow the road. The vehicle twisted sickeningly to one side, but managed to gain traction before it left the road.

00:07:59

There was a flash of light, then a horrible grinding noise as the base and everything within a hundred feet of the compound was suddenly SUCKED towards the center of the region. The soldiers caught inside never had a chance as they were pulled towards the center, then down as concrete, wood and earth were dragged along with them into a space roughly a foot-and-a-half wide…and made to fit by the chaotic forces that drove the destruction.

Batman didn't stop, moving down the road at high speed, catching up with the other Maulers quickly. They parted to let him pass as Roxy flew overhead, her face solemn. Less than a minute ago, she'd seen a small military base do a remarkable impression of a haunted house at the end of a horror movie. Right about now, she was running on hope that Batman wasn't carrying a dead body back to Gotham, or was alone in the Batmobile.

She picked up the radio. "Look, Bats, I don't know if you can hear me…just tell me he's not dead. That's all I want to know. Please. Just tell me he's alive."

In the Batmobile, Catwoman listened to Roxy's voice coming from the radio scanner. The tone in Roxy's voice was unlike her. Desperate. Roxy didn't DO "desperate" well. She looked back at Batman, but he was already reaching for the microphone. "He's alive for now, Roxy Rocket," he said simply.

Roxy heard the voice and sighed in relief. She considered asking for more details, but she'd been in the biz long enough to recognize the "you'll-learn-more-when-I'm-ready-to-tell-you" tone in Batman's voice. The important thing was that the Driver was alive. She radioed back, "Tell him he and Dale owe me, willya?" Knowing she wouldn't get an answer to that, she turned the rocket towards Gotham and hit the afterburners, speeding away.

"You know, Bruce, this situation really calls for a re-design of the Batmobile. Faster, more maneuverable…a couple of jump seats?"

"I sincerely doubt I'm going to be in this situation again."

"Chasing the Driver? Dealing with government troops?"

"Having more than two people in the Batmobile."

"You know, Bruce, if it wasn't for our third passenger, I'd say there were several merits in us riding in the Batmobile like this." She scanned the dashboard. "Got anything in here that'll monitor the Driver's vitals?"

Batman tapped out a code on the keypad to the left of the steering column and one of the screens to the right displayed a readout showing the Driver's pulse, blood pressure and EKGs. His vitals were weak, but stable. "He'll be fine, but we can't take him to a hospital…"

--

Fielding waited until the pod came to a stop, then looked up as the hatch over his head opened. He climbed out and up the ladder through the hatch into the safe house, a gas station along the interstate leading to and from Gotham from the west, conveniently closed for the day. Fielding swept the front of his jacket with his hands as he got to his feet.

"Rough ride?"

Fielding tensed and spun around, then relaxed as he recognized the speaker. "Rath. I see you decided not to head to Washington after all."

"I was, but I was called on my way to the airport and given other orders. I was asked to prepare the safe house and wait for you to arrive. Seems the field test of the grav-bomb was a success."

"Indeed. And no need to worry about witnesses or forensic evidence linking us to the event. I'd say that the deployment was a complete success." Fielding walked to the hanging bag lying on the counter next to the register.

"Only one issue. The Driver is alive, and he did not provide us with the answers we were trying to get."

Fielding stopped. "He's alive? Impossible. The fear toxins Crane developed should've stopped his heart, especially considering what you did to him during interrogation. The heart may be a durable muscle, but it's not that durable."

"Well, you see, that's the thing. I didn't inject him with the third fear toxin."

Fielding stopped straightening his tie. "What are you saying? You _wanted _him to live??"

"Of course. The world is a much more interesting place with him in it."

Fielding turned to bark a retort about following orders, but the remark dried up in his throat as he saw Rath holding a silenced semi-automatic pistol, aimed at Fielding's heart. "This is gross insubordination!"

"Fielding, be quiet, please. You need to understand what's going on." Rath smiled. "The Driver is an ongoing issue that needs to be addressed. However, the Driver also guarantees my involvement in the resolution of the whole FENRIS matter. If the Driver died, I'd probably be sent off to some suburbanite Hell, waiting in some safe house under an assumed identity, waiting to be activated. There's so much I can do here, not only to further FENRIS' ambitions…but this city can also provide me with the challenges I enjoy so much. The Driver is the only one on the planet who's ever given me a run for my money. Ever. Consider how truly rare that is." He stood up, walking over to the suitcase and shutting it.

"FENRIS will…!"

"They'll what? Punish me? Kill me? Why would they, when they have realized that the Driver's escape and involvement was not of my doing, but yours? You see, that's why I'm here. My orders have changed." Rath smiled, a peaceful, serene smile, as he fired three times into Fielding's chest and once into his forehead. He walked over, seeing the left leg twitching, mesmerized as he gazed at it until it stopped moving. "I'm afraid the punishment for your failures was decided long ago, General. Nothing personal. Well…maybe it was a LITTLE personal." He smiled. "Someone has to take the fall."

He reached under the counter and flipped a switch. "Goodbye. Sorry, no military funeral for you. Viking, maybe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a new mission, and it's going to be SO much more fun." Rath smiled. "You know, I think I'm going to get a lot accomplished here in Gotham. And the best part is, there are so many interesting characters willing to help me."

He picked up his case and walked out to his car, a silver Shelby Cobra 500 GT, vintage. It was his most prized possession, took it everywhere he went. And right next to the fuzzy blue dice, a parking tag hung, advertising to anyone who cared to look, "SILVER SERVICE, GOTHAM CITY, 0437709". The tag was complimentary with the apartment he'd rented in the business district.

Rath was sticking around in Gotham. And he truly did mean business.

--

The Driver was surprised. As he opened his eyes, he found himself experiencing three things he didn't think he would: pain, breathing, and the ability to open his eyes. It was dark in places, well-lit in others. _Let's see…warm air, but moist. Underground…and from what I can see, everything is colored black with shades of gray. I'm not in Heaven, but I'm in the second-most-unlikely place I expected to be._

He tried sitting up. Even with an increased healing factor, it would still be days before he was up for working. It took him three attempts, but he managed to get to a sitting position.

"Careful there, Speed Racer. Might not be the best of ideas to do any walking around," came a voice from behind him, clear, female and modulated.

The Driver didn't turn. "Oracle, I presume?"

"Indeed. You sound surprised to be here."

"I was not expecting to survive my mission."

"What were you expecting? A martyr's death? Hate to disappoint you, Driver, but there's a few people around here that would rather you stuck around a bit longer. Roxy, for one. Dale, for another. They went out to find you, took on an entire base of military yahoos to try and get you out."

The Driver shook his head. "They shouldn't have done that."

"Well, they did."

"They weren't part of the MISSION," the Driver said insistently, then winced, laying down again and taking a few deep breaths.

"The 'mission'…what was so important about this 'mission' that you felt you had to die for it?"

Selina moved further down the steps, well out of sight from the Driver, but well within earshot of him. She listened as he continued, "You don't understand."

"Where have I heard that before? Come on, Driver. Help me to understand." Oracle fully knew Selina was close by, but Oracle wasn't about to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.

The figure on the table took a deep breath, one that seemed to intensify with its sound how alone he was down in the Batcave. "There had to be death involved. That's the only way people would listen. That's the only way people would NOTICE, shake the scales from their eyes, take the blinders off, if only long enough to realize there was something wrong."

"Expecting rivers of honey and seventy-two virgins when you died?"

The Driver turned towards Oracle's holographic construct. "Don't you EVER lump me in with some kind of terrorist!" The force of his reply caused a fresh bolt of pain down his side and he grunted.

"Why not? Consider the words you used. That's how people cause fear."

"Wrong. The only death that was acceptable was mine. Mine and no one else's."

"And you felt killing yourself was the only way?"

He sighed. "Tell me, when firemen rushed into harm's way to put out fires amid crumbling towers, were they suicidal? A soldier, moving across a minefield to clear the way for his companions, is he suicidal? Look around you, Oracle. People hide in their homes. How many people truly associate with their neighbors? I've been all over the world. I've seen things you wouldn't believe in your darkest nightmares. I've _done_ things that, if you knew what I did and why, you would look at me as if I offered to rape you and kill you, and not necessarily in that order. And the people at home in America, safe behind their doors and walls, don't know and don't want to know. There are many people in the government who don't want them to know, because if they knew, the people of this country would rise up as one and say, 'NEVER AGAIN,' and a lot of government types would be out on the street at best, spending the rest of their lives in Leavenworth or on death row at worst." He took a deep breath. "I'm a soldier. I've always been a soldier, and I'll die a soldier. But I couldn't take orders like that anymore. I can't. I'm on my own side now, and good or bad, I had to follow the mission."

"But you haven't told me why."

"You've seen the files. You know what FENRIS is. If heroes like Superman…BATMAN…the Justice League…if their preservation and freedom isn't worth a life, then what the hell is?" He took another breath and sighed. "So much for my 100-percent success rate."

"I don't understand you, Driver."

"Good. You'll have fewer bad dreams. I personally guarantee it. Besides, with any luck, as soon as I'm fit to travel, Batman will turn me into the authorities. Maybe I'll make enough noise before I get 'suicided' to get at least part of the effect I was hoping for."

"You're not afraid to die?"

The Driver closed his eyes. "Ever read Eneas Munson?"

"Who was he?"

The Driver chuckled. "He wrote some words chronicling the death of a young schoolteacher. 'Hate of oppression's arbitrary plan, The love of freedom, and the rights of man; A strong desire to save from slavery's chain The future millions of the western main, And hand down safe, from men's invention cleared, The sacred truths which all the just revered; For ends like these, I wish to draw my breath,' He bravely cried, 'or dare encounter death.' And when a cruel wretch pronounced his doom, Replied, 'Tis well, —for all is peace to come; The sacred cause for which I drew my sword, Shall yet prevail, and peace shall be restored. I've served with zeal the land that gave me birth, Fulfilled my course, and done my work on earth; Have ever aimed to tread that shining road, That leads a mortal to the blessed God. I die resigned, and quit life's empty stage…' That schoolteacher died on September 22, 1776. He was considered America's first spy. He was barely twenty-one years old, and his name…"

"…was Nathan Hale." Oracle paused. From her spot on the stairs, Selina wiped her eyes, touched by the remembrance of such a noble act. The Driver certainly had a talent for oration. "So you see yourself as today's Nathan Hale?" Oracle continued.

"Please…I'm nowhere in his league. I just had enough of living for nothing, and decided that if I was going to die, it would be to preserve, not to destroy."

"And what would you do," Batman said, seeming to unfold from the darkness near the Bat-Computer, "if you weren't arrested?"

The Driver didn't turn, but he smiled a little. "Was wondering when you'd show up."

Batman walked over to the Driver. "How are you feeling?" he asked in his low-grizzly voice, the one he used when sounding unlike Bruce Wayne.

"I've been better. Nice work setting the bones."

"You haven't answered my question yet."

"Yeah, I noticed you're not the rhetorical-question type." He tried to sit up again, managing a little easier. "I'd continue my mission. Of course, I'm going to have to change the parameters a bit. Didn't expect to live past the interrogation. Probably going to have a few interesting dreams, considering how much of Crane's toxins they pumped into me."

"Are you still going to keep driving?"

"Of course. Can't do government work anymore, even if I wanted to. So I guess that kinda leaves the private sector. Can you imagine me asking _anyone_, 'Would you like fries with that?' Not likely."

"And if I find you taking on any criminal jobs during the course of any of my investigations?"

The Driver smiled. "Then may the best driver win."

"Some might say that would be an irrational attitude."

"Then I'm in the right place, aren't I?"

_For crying out loud, you two, could you save the posturing until AFTER he leaves? I'd rather not have to pass on my exercising just because you two boys like to play "Who's More Macho?"_ Selina had the presence of mind not to sigh in exasperation, but it was getting tougher.

Batman and the Driver looked at each other, then the Driver "blinked first", smiling and chuckling. "I hate wearing out my welcome. So…" He lay down once again. "Bring me someplace nice and quiet, then call Dale and tell her to pick me up. I'd appreciate it if you'd help me into the seat, since I'll probably be too unconscious to get in myself. You know, protocols about privacy and all that?" He closed his eyes. "It's okay. Just nothing that leaves a bad taste in my mouth or leaves me with any stiffness, okay?" he said, not opening his eyes, just breathing in through his nose slowly and out through his mouth.

Batman nodded, then took a small atomizer out of one of the drawers near his lab. "Open," he said simply. The Driver opened his mouth and Batman sprayed a fine mist into his mouth. The Driver relaxed a little more, his breathing becoming slow and even.

Batman waited, checking his vital signs, specifically the brain patterns that might give away any chance the Driver might've been faking his sleep. Satisfied that the Driver was well and truly out cold, only then did Batman nod to Selina. "He's out."

"Looks like your night isn't over yet." She walked down the steps and looked down at the Driver's face. "He looks so peaceful, doesn't he?"

"Hard to believe he's a fifty-car pileup waiting to happen. Hard to believe he's going for a three-way tie between the Black Plague, cholera and himself to see who gets to do more damage."

"Thought you'd be more graceful in victory, Bruce." Selina smiled. "Look, if you dump him somewhere quick and get home reasonably fast, I think there'll be enough time for me to tell you a bedtime story."

"Bedtime story?"

"Oh yes. _Puss In Boots._ Or, to be more precise, _Puss In Thigh-High Boots._ And I guarantee, Bruce," Selina said as she went up the stairs, smiling in a way that only a feline could manage, "my version of the tale isn't nearly so 'Grimm'."

Batman suddenly thought, _If I hit all green lights…_ Then he shook himself. It was getting easier and easier for her to do that, cause him to shift gears mentally. _Be serious. You're taking the Driver to be picked up by his car, not dropping off a Blu-Ray at the local rental store._ "I'll be back soon."

"Hope so. Me-OW." She said the last word with a heated whisper, looking back at Bruce and winking as she stood there. She looked quite the picture of feline femininity, left foot a step higher than the other, shoulders tilted, wearing her usual workout clothes, which weren't much less skin-tight that her usual garb.

Batman almost tripped on his own foot.

--

Daniel awoke slowly. _Well, well…wonders never cease. I survived an actual suicide mission. And to think my instructor at Langley said…_ He stopped, then sniffed the air again. "Hello?"

"Daniel??" he heard Dale say, then turned his head to see her mounted on her base. He was back at the Garage. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah…yeah, I think I am." He sat up. "Was Roxy by?"

"No, but you better call her, studmuffin. She's been calling me once every three minutes for the past day. Why do you ask?"

"Because I could've sworn I smelled perfume. Wait…no, not Roxy's." He smiled. "Well, well, well. Batman, you dog."

"What?"

"Either Bats is working on a new fragrance, or he's got a skirt down in the Batcave." He chuckled. "Good for him. Only question is, who could…" Daniel stopped. "You know, I think I'm going to let that one go. Some people deserve their secrets."

"So what now?"

Daniel considered. "Actually, I don't know. I didn't expect things to turn out the way they did."

"Yeah, you BASTARD, you were going to leave me alone in here…!"

Daniel turned to Dale. "I did what I did to make sure you would be safe, Dale." He was surprised by her sudden outburst, but he had the good grace not to show it.

"I've got news for you, DANIEL, the next time you decide to check out on me, rest assured you won't be checking out alone. You get suicidal on me, and I'll activate the shotgun-code. That's a promise."

"Dammit, Dale…!" he said angrily, but the computer wasn't finished.

"Listen good, Daniel Vulpas. We are in this TOGETHER. Got me? PARTNERS. Any more of this chickenshit falling-on-your-sword stuff and you can guarantee I'll be a paperweight fifty seconds later. Do you understand? ARE YOU INTERNALIZING THIS PARTICULAR FACT OF LIFE??"

Daniel was silent. Something about Dale had changed. God only knew how much. "All right, Dale. I promise."

Wet concrete wasn't as thick as the silence in the garage.

Dale spoke at last. "Good. As long as we make that crystal clear, hon, we can keep these little awkward moments to a minimum. Now…" Her voice was more jovial, more like her old self, as if the last two minutes had never occurred. "Give Roxy a call, Daniel. I know she'd really like to hear from you."

Daniel smiled, but inside his mind, a voice said quite clearly, _You better hope, buddy-boy, that you didn't just open Pandora's Box. _He began dialing, wondering what he'd done to both Roxy and Dale that had prompted both worry about one partner and a small degree of panic concerning the other. _You worry too much. Just forget about the fact that Dale is developing both an unusual mindset and the processing power to bring some pretty powerful processes to a screeching, grinding halt. Never mind the fact that she's discovering emotional states and that she's way too unprepared to use them._

_Most of all, don't even give the fact that she's still very much in charge of the Maulers a second thought at all. I mean, what are the odds that she'll let those emotional states cause her to rethink little details like morals and ethics, really? And now that she's got emotions, what next? She'll want friends of her own? Her independence? A body of her own that doesn't come with wheels?_

He got Roxy's machine. "Roxy? Daniel. Before you freak out, yes, I'm alive. I just need a few days to recover. Feels like I should change my name from 'Driver' to 'Driven-Over'. Don't worry. Look, I'll give you a call again in a couple of days. Until then, get some rest…we both could use it." With that, he laid back on the couch, hung up the phone, and took his own advice.

EPILOGUE

"Here you go, sir. I hope you enjoy it. We appreciate such prompt and proper payment." The concierge didn't have to pretend to be appreciative; very few people had the background his newest tenant had. The background check revealed old money, and plenty of it, with a distinguished pedigree from Italy. "Rest assured we'll take exquisite care of your property. Detailed twice a month, second and fourth Monday of every month, maid service daily…"

"That won't be necessary. I have my family's servants coming on the morrow. But I will appreciate it greatly if they have unrestricted access to the items they need to keep my home clean."

"But of course. I'll have keys ready by the time they arrive. Will there be anything else?" the concierge asked the new tenant, a man in his early fifties with a thick moustache, a bald head and using a cane.

"Yes. My son is coming on the train tomorrow. Young Dominic. Please afford him every courtesy. I shall hear of it if he is not treated better than I am." He held up a photo of a young man with blond hair, blue eyes and a charming, devil-may-care smile. "He is my life. Looks so much like his mother," he added wistfully.

"Have no fear, good sir. Consider me at your service and his, day or night."

The old man wiped his eyes. "I am in your debt."

"I shall leave you to get comfortable in your new home. And please, do not hesitate to call the front for anything." The concierge smiled. It wasn't often that he met men of means who were so soft-spoken, and devoted to their families. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, passing domiciles belonging the cream of Gotham's elite. _Let us hope that he proves to be better than these stuck-up elitists,_ he hoped privately.

Inside the new apartment, the old man looked around. Four bedrooms, three baths, thirteen rooms in all. Fireplace, all the amenities, personal elevator to the garage, fully furnished. A cool thirty million dollars total.

The old man walked the bedroom and sat down on the bed, his wrinkled face becoming a smile that became wider and wider, looking creepier the wider it got. He opened his shirt, reached in at chest level, then pulled up and away, revealing the face in the photo he had shown the concierge. He peeled off the quarter-sized module over his vocal cords, then removed his "hands", revealing them to be gloves that hid his youth. Last to go were the slightly yellowed teeth, pulled free to reveal a set of gleaming white teeth. He carefully placed the disguise on the bed, then stood tall and walked over to the window of the bedroom, looking out over Robinson Park.

Rath smiled. Gotham truly was a darkly beautiful town. He could see it in the architecture, the way the town followed its own sounds, had its own charm. It was a one-of-a-kind town, capable of giving birth to a one-of-a-kind hero.

His smile was calm, beatific, even serene as he looked out over the city. Then he said in a hopeful tone, the kind of tone reserved for families and Christmas and weddings, "I can hardly WAIT to destroy this town."

TO BE CONTINUED…


	5. Gotham Chronicles, Part I

The Driver: Gotham Chronicles, Part I – Too Much Attention

_As I was going up the stair  
I met a man who wasn't there  
He wasn't there again today  
I think he's with the NSA…_

"I've always wondered, Daniel. You never tried to ply your trade in Metropolis. Any particular reason?" Dale inquired from her docking station in the Garage, a name the Driver had bestowed upon his home. Of course, he had more than one "Garage" around town, but there was something about seeing the Batcave that had imprinted upon the courier.

"Well, I could pick several. The type of people, the fouled-up street management, but I would have to say the main reason would be that one of the residents there has a set of peepers that come with an 'extra-crispy' setting."

"But Superman's more noble than most," Dale countered.

"Exactly. I'd rather deal with sinners than with saints. More in common." He changed wrenches and reached inside the belly of Mauler 3.

"Are you sure it's not because of all the others there? Say, the female versions?"

Daniel pulled himself out from under the vehicle. "You are like a dog with a frickin' bone, you know that?"

"Don't blame me just because you have a fetish for spandex you try so hard to deny," Dale said coyly.

"Okay, Dale, let's get this out, just for the cheap seats. I AM NEVER GOING TO DATE A SUPERHEROINE. Period. The end. Not a snowball's chance in a blast furnace." He pulled himself back under the Mauler.

"Why not? Seems like opposites would attract…"

He pulled himself back out and sat up. "Okay, I'm going to answer you, if only to do something while the oil's draining. First off, I have a little quirk about superheroines. They have a tendency to do several things I find annoying."

"Like what?"

"Well, for starters, let's say, oh, like ARREST ME."

"Not everything you do is illegal."

"They have this thing now, called a 'statute of limitations', maybe you've heard of it…"

"Fine, fine, whatever. What else?"

"Well, if you must know, it's how they dress."

"Like how?"

"Oh COME ON. Last time I saw someone showing a TV documentary puff-piece on the female members of the JLA and the JSA, I thought I was watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Event."

"You're just saying that because Supergirl's skirt was too short."

"Dale, that wasn't a skirt. That was a belt with delusions of substance. And last I checked, having the ability to fly and wearing a skirt constitutes a hidden exhibitionist streak."

"Wonder Woman?"

"Nothing says 'dominatrix' like a gold bustier, queen-like attitude and a willingness to use rope on a regular basis."

"Power Girl?"

"Last time I checked, pure white one-piece bathing suits were a popular fetish with Japanese men. God help her if she ever gets that thing wet. Don't even get me started on that suspiciously-placed hole on her bathing suit. I look at that thing and I think, 'Well, if either of those bombshells ever go off, at least the explosion is going to be directed upwards.'"

"Black Canary?"

"Leather outfit, fishnets? Pass."

"Zatanna?"

"Fishnets, tuxedo-bathing suit, does magic, and I have enough trouble understanding women without having them talk backwards."

"Hawkgirl?"

"WAY too militant. Besides, I'd rather not wake up to find myself three thousand feet in the air being supported by a woman who's feeling like a harpy."

"Vixen?"

"Ehhhhhhhh-NO. Word of advice: NEVER go into battle wearing a skin-tight, one-piece outfit with an OBVIOUS ZIPPER TAB big enough to shoot hoops with. One pull and you're spending the next five minutes trying to put two mouthfuls back where they once were."

Dale laughed. "You're hard to please. Stargirl?"

"Never date a girl for whom the 'S' in 'PMS' stands for 'supernova'."

"I hear Starfire made it back not too long ago."

"No way. Two words: alien anatomy. I don't want to wake up one morning to find out there's some alien mating ritual and I'm suddenly short some body parts I consider rather valuable."

"Liberty Belle?"

"Patriotism only goes so far. Plus, serious parent issues. And before you start adding any more members of the JLA or the JSA or the frickin' TEEN TITANS, I don't work well in a 'team'. Date a girl, and you're dating her 'family'. Besides, all superheroines are nutcases."

"What makes you say that?"

"Ever seen any plain-looking woman with powers? There's a reason why they came up with the word, 'super-model'."

"And your point being?"

"The more attractive they are, the CRAZIER they are. And we're talking about women who don't just have issues, they have SUBSCRIPTIONS."

"And you defend them."

"Of course. Look…superheroes are just regular, screwed-up people like everyone else, but having powers makes them super-screwed-up. With great power come great problems. But they're trying to do the right thing more often than not, which is more than I can say for any government on this planet."

"Don't forget, hon, you're super-powered."

"Yeah…and see what a mess I am. The defense smugly rests his case." He bowed. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a filter to change, sensors to re-align and a crankcase to fill."

"What about Roxy?" Dale asked sweetly.

"We've had a few dates, we're not shopping for china and chapels. Besides, I don't think she's the 'settle down' type." He shrugged. "If anything, we're partners."

"With benefits."

"Best kind. Look, Dale…I don't do well with relationships. This thing is temporary. Roxy will get bored, she'll start to get to feeling constricted, the walls will start closing in on her, she'll stop returning my calls, and she'll move on. I've read her file, Dale. I know her. Six months, tops, she'll find a new movie-of-the-week to hang out with."

"Oh, she will, will she?"

"She better." He stood up. "She'll live a whole lot longer."

"Let's back up a mile or so, back to the point where you talk about how well you understand women."

"I've got a better idea. Let's talk about paying the bills. Any calls while I was recuperating?"

"As a matter of fact, smartass…" A new voice came out of her speakers. "Driver, I've got a job for you. Simple transport job from the Gotham docks." The voice was male, deep, a few hints of age showing in the accent. "The cargo is the size of a cigar box, but security is paramount, as well as secrecy. Call me at 555-4747 on a scrambled line for details. This offer expires at midnight." Dale's voice resumed. "That came in this morning."

"Sounds like it's going to be a little dicey." Daniel smiled. "Sounds like fun. Get me a line and encrypt it, then send a message to Mauler 2 and prep it for camo and transfer to Site Gamma."

"Line's ready."

Daniel wiped his hands and put the earpiece in his right ear. "Hello?"

"You are the Driver, I presume?"

"Hope so. I'm wearing his underwear."

"If I want a comedian, I'll hire one. I need a courier." The voice on the other end remained calm, matter-of-fact. "May we talk business now, or do you have any other bits of humor you cannot resist expressing?"

"Fine. Before you got any further, I need to give you the Rules…"

----------

Roxy seemed to flit around the apartment. She had thought about looking up the word "swoon" in the dictionary. She didn't know what swooning was, but she couldn't help but think that what she was feeling was certainly swoon-inducing.

The Beast needed to be re-fueled, cleaned and re-armed. It almost seemed like a shame to do so, considering that it seemed like a trophy commemorating her daring flight more than a vehicle. She was already thinking up new designs for more impressive rockets, but the more she thought about it, the more attached she felt to the Beast. It was their baby.

As she mused, Roxy heard the phone ring. The pounce she made would've made Selina proud. "Hello??"

"Roxy?"

Her face soured. "Oh, it's only you, Sly."

"Nice to hear from you too, Roxy. Look, I can't talk for long. The Joker's out. He's been asking about the Driver."

Roxy gulped. The Joker's focus of interest usually had a habit of getting poisoned, stolen or blown up. "I'll let him know."

"He's also been asking about you too."

Roxy gulped significantly harder. "Like what?"

"Later. For now, lay low."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have a boyfriend who seemed to have space reserved for him in the local news whenever he goes out to get MILK. Ciao." She hung up the phone.

On his end, Sly set the phone down. He walked back to his station behind the bar, trying not to look like he was avoiding the Joker. The smiling patron sat at the midpoint of the bar, looking around. "What is this, a bar or a crime scene? Come on! I thought I was going to see a two-for-one special! Where's Harvey Dent when you need them?"

Sly walked over carefully. "Hello, Mr. Joker. What can I get for you tonight?"

"Well, my good man, I want to know where the Driver is. I want to know who the Driver is. I want to know how the Driver is. I want to know WHY the Driver is. Questions, questions, so many questions and not nearly enough answers. I hear tell, though," the Joker said slyly, leaning in closer to Sly, "that he and a certain rocket pilot have been flying and driving around, and that he saved Brucie's life, so he and I have OODLES to talk about!" The Joker slapped the surface of the bartop. "SO! What do you know about him?"

"Only what I've seen on the television." Sly gave him a smile he'd spent considerable time on. The smile was calculated to be wide enough to meet the Joker's standards, yet bland enough not to encourage further conversation. Sly was particularly proud of it, he'd worked on developing it for years.

"Well, bartend, I think I'm just going to sit right here until the Driver comes in. What does he drink when he comes in?"

"Ginger ale with plenty of lime."

The Joker's grin grew. "A green drink with no alcohol? Now THAT'S a joke! Fix me up with one of those and keep them coming." He looked around the Vault, nodding approvingly. "I LOVE the new look. It looks good enough to STEAL. Listen, Sly old boy, you must tell me more about this Driver character. I have to know!"

Then Sly asked a simple question and knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he said it: "Why?"

"BECAUSE!" the Joker said with a new intensity, instantly garnering the attention of everyone in the room. "Don't you get it? This guy has rules for everything! 'Do this, don't do that, do this instead.' I hear he even has a laundry list of rules that he recites like the Lord's Prayer to every person he works for, and they have to accept those rules if they want _him_ to work for _them_! Can you even imagine how _wrong_ that is?? This guy needs to lighten up! This guy needs to…to…to SMILE." The Joker grinned and everyone within the Vault realized that he had just picked up a new obsession-du-jour.

Sly blandly stood his ground as the Joker sipped the ginger ale, nodding approvingly and singsonging _sotto voce,_ "Willie with a thirst for gore, nailed his sister to the door. Mother said with humor quaint,  
'Careful, Willie, don't scratch the paint!' Hee hee hee…"

Sly managed to hold his spot up until the second "hee" before he heard a woman's voice at the end of the bar, summoning him. "Excuse me," he said politely and walked with a casual pace much more relaxed than the frantic flight he desperately wanted to make from the Joker's presence. When he reached the statuesque Japanese woman at the end, he said with a smile, finally allowing beads of sweat to form on his face, "Whatever you want, miss, is on the house."

The woman was tall, well-formed, athletic. She was certainly not the usual height or build for a typical Japanese. She was also quite attractive, the eyepatch over her right eye only adding to her appeal. "I'll have what the pale gent with the green hair is having."

"Certainly. New in town? I don't recall ever seeing you in this establishment before," Sly said in his trademark cordial manner, "and, if I may say so, your appearance is not something I'd forget…or want to," he added with just the slightest hint of flirtation.

"Well, if you must know, this is my first time in Gotham City. I'm looking for an old flame, hoping to re-kindle." She smiled politely. "Mmmm, this is tasty. What do you call it?"

"In honor of the man who came up with it, I'm thinking of calling it the 'Green Light', since drinking it ensures you'll be safe to drive."

"Hmmm…I like that. Is the creator in the bar tonight? I'd like to thank him."

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. He doesn't come in often." Sly checked the room again, giving it a once-over. "He may not be in tonight, either. Of course, he's a busy man, very much in demand, according to his reputation."

The woman smiled, licking her lips in a manner that reminded Sly of Catwoman. "Oh, you have NO idea…" she said seductively. "Could you do me a BIG favor? Could you let him know, if you do see him, that an old lover from Nippon came by to see him, and to let him know that I'll be seeing him again very soon?"

"I'd be happy to." There was something about the attractive Japanese woman that made Sly feel more than a little bold. "Of course, I wouldn't mind the idea of you hanging around long enough to give him the message personally…"

She smiled, then reached out with her fingertips, the fingernails caressing Sly's cheeks. "You're cute…but I'm afraid that I only have eyes for one man right now. However, should things turn out the way I hope, perhaps I'll come back once I've gotten a few loose ends tied up. And then…who knows?" Her face was serene, even a bit cheerful, the thought of closing her relationship with the Driver and coming back to have a little romance with Sly appealing to her greatly. The woman stood up and left a five-spot on the bar, then sauntered out, a distinctive sway in her walk.

Sly chuckled. _Wonder if my luck is changing?_ he thought with a smile.

----------

Outside, the woman walked out of the Vault and strutted down the street, closing her eyes in pleasurable anticipation. She was so close to a truly wonderful, truly EPIC night with Daniel, after all this time. She could hardly wait.

"Hey lady…wanna party?"

The woman turned to see a pair of men in an alley, a couple of local thugs. Tommy T and his brother, G-Rod. Their real names were only used on their criminal jackets, along with words like "rape", "arson", "assault" and "grand theft". G-Rod grinned as he walked out in front of her. "Come on, man, a lady like this doesn't talk to riff-raff."

"Yeah?" Tommy T continued, "Well, ask her if she just screws them."

The woman turned to look at them, then looked them both up and down. _Well, it has been a while…I'm sure Daniel wouldn't begrudge me a 'quickie' in the meantime._ "You two have a place where we can go?" she said with a come-get-me smile.

"Sure," Tommy T said, his own smile showing teeth.

"Hope it's real private…I get kinda loud when I'm having fun. And when I have fun, you two will be getting loud, too." She drew a finger to her lips, then trailed it in a lazy zig-zag down over her front to her belly.

G-Rod grinned. "We know just the place."

"One more thing…hope you two big, strong men have the supplies to tie me up. I'm really into the rough stuff, if you know what I mean."

As it turned out, they had everything she wanted. Plenty of rope, plenty of privacy…and they were nice and loud, too.

The woman checked her clock, found that nine hours had passed since she had picked up the two men outside the vault. They were lying on either side of her, and she felt quite sticky. She sighed. It was time to stop relaxing and get up. She turned to the two figures flanking her. "No, please, don't get up. I can find the shower myself, thanks," she said quietly.

As she got up, she passed a cracked full-length mirror and turned to look at herself. Her body was flawless, perfect. The blood covering her from head to toe, browning slightly in places as it dried, only added to the picture in her mind. She turned to look at the two men in bed. She hadn't really done too much to them, only removing their arms and legs and cutting open their bellies. Purely foreplay. Besides, she hadn't really found them that satisfying.

Not like Daniel. She shuddered as she turned to the bathroom to shower herself. The woman knew, in her heart, that a night with Daniel would be fulfilling unlike anything she'd ever felt before. Even after the accident, she remembered how it felt to be with him, doing things the old-fashioned way. She hadn't been with a man that exciting since.

_And unlike those little morsels, I'm going to spend at least two WEEKS having fun with Daniel. _ The very thought caused a delicious chill to run up her spine even as she stepped into the cascade of hot water. She wondered if any man in the future would be able to be as exciting as Daniel would be.

She doubted it, but she knew she was going to have so much fun finding out.

----------

While the Joker was thinking about cars and drivers and a certain newcomer to Gotham was trying to further find the lines between sex and murder so she could erase it, a certain paragon of felinity was making a choice. It wasn't a choice to be made lightly or casually. Several important factors had to be considered. Size, color, shape…the level of detail when making this kind of selection was deeper than most people thought.

Finally, Selina smiled. She'd found the perfect one. "Bruce, come over here. I've found _the_ one."

Bruce walked over, looking at her choice. "This one?"

"Yes. It's utterly perfect."

Bruce nodded, then turned to the proprietor. "That's the one."

The owner of the establishment nodded curtly. "Delivered or do you want to have it wrapped and carry it home yourself? It is kinda big, and for one this size, we can do free delivery."

Bruce smiled. "Have the tree trimmed and delivered to this address." He handed the man a card, then took Selina's arm. "So, what made you want that tree?" he asked as they walked out of the fenced-in lot, heading for the car.

"Nice height, perfect shape, and the bottom branches were further from ground level than the others."

"And that's important?" Bruce asked with a cocked eyebrow as Alfred opened the car door for them.

"Of course. More room under the tree for presents." She grinned. "And you don't want the presents under the tree to look lonely, do you?"

"And the true motivation becomes clear." Bruce chuckled.

Selina was glad to see Bruce in a good mood, hoping that it would continue on through the holidays. With any luck, Bruce might not be so inclined to rampage through Gotham as the Batman next Hell Month. After all, Christmas was supposed to be a time for miracles.

Her cellphone buzzed at her and she reached into her purse to check the caller. The text message was short and simple:

From: E. Nygma,

Subj: funnyman

He's out.

_Ah well. It was enjoyable while it lasted. Wonder how long it'll take for Batman to get the news?_

"Who was it?" Bruce asked.

"Edward."

Bruce nodded. "Judging from the look on your face, I'd say the Joker is no longer in Arkham."

"You're taking this calmly."

Bruce nodded. "I've been hearing some rumors. Seems the Joker is taking an interest in the Driver. He's been questioning everyone who came within earshot of his cell at Arkham and in the yard. Talked at length with one orderly in particular, who's now recovering from the encounter with another psychiatrist." He tapped a button on his armrest, activating the intercom. "Home, Alfred."

"Yes, sir," Alfred said, and turned the Rolls northeast towards Wayne Manor.

Bruce checked his watch. Selina sighed. It was turning into a long night and it had barely even started.

----------

The Driver piloted the Mauler towards Triconner Dockyard. As he drove, he was aware of how confining the environment was becoming. The warehouses on the south end of Gotham loomed over the docks, and the few open areas were sectioned off by groups of massive metal shipping containers, providing just enough space to drive around them. Great for trucks and golf carts, but not that good for anything that relied upon speed. Any vehicle trying to navigate the sharp turns faster than thirty miles per hour would find themselves bouncing off the metal containers like a rocket-powered pinball.

"Dale, what have you got?"

"Whoever this guy is, he's serious about security. Five men armed with sniper rifles stationed in elevated positions, eight armed men outside the boat, three SUVs, and based on the density of their construction, they're bullet-resistant."

"Bullet 'resistant'? Whatever happened to good old-fashioned bullet_proof_?"

"Well, hun, if it's any consolation at all, I'm bulletproof," she said sweetly.

"And don't think for a second that I don't appreciate it."

"You're a dear. Contact in eleven seconds at current speed. Want a gun?"

"Thanks, but if I have to use a gun, the situation's pretty much too far gone for it to be of any use by that point." He stopped the car twenty feet from the SUVs, slightly parallel to them. "Anything changes, let me know."

"Mister Driver…" One of the men came forward, better-dressed and a little stockier than the others. His complexion was nearly unreadable in the dim light and his accent was disguised, but it only took a few words to locate his nationality. Egyptian, southern with Farsi influences. "I am pleased you came on such short notice."

"First things first. The money?"

"Of course." He snapped and one of the bodyguards walked over with a steel case in his hands. He opened it in front of Daniel, who perused it. It didn't take him long. "This is fifty thousand dollars."

"Correct."

Daniel looked up at the stout man. "That's _half _of what we agreed on."

"You receive the rest when you arrive at your destination."

"You pay all of it, up front, now." Daniel faced down the contact. "What's your name?"

"You may call me Ali, and I pay you half. I pay you in full, and what happens? You run off with the money and the cargo."

"That may be standard operating procedure in Cairo with some drover, but I don't see any pyramids. Do you? You pay me in full or not at all."

"And why should I believe a word of what you say?" He gestured and the bodyguards pulled up TND25 submachineguns from under their coats, not even bothering to fold out the stocks.

"Professional standards. Try 'em, you might like them. We agreed. Money up front."

"Take half. Be smart."

"It's either all of it or it's toilet paper. See you around. Good luck getting three blocks, much less across town." Daniel turned back towards the car. He was halfway around the front bumper when he heard Ali clear his throat.

"Very well. A moment?" He turned to one of his bodyguards and nodded. The guard lowered his weapon, then walked up the ramp to the boat and disappeared inside. As they waited, Ali opened the back of one of the SUVs and brought out a cloth-wrapped box only slightly larger than a cigar box. "You know, Mister Driver, have you ever considered compromising on one or two of your Rules?"

"No. When you compromise your Rules, you might as well retire. Sticking with my Rules guarantees a lot of benefits. For instance, what do you suppose would happen if I compromised my rule about not looking inside the packages I carry? Or decided to compromise my Rules about passengers? Face it, Ali, when push comes to shove, who are you going to rely on? The pain-in-the-ass, or the guy who thinks, 'Well, it won't really matter'?"

Ali looked Daniel over. "Very well. Where do I put the cargo?"

Daniel smiled. The side door opened and the rear seat flipped forward, revealing a compartment easily able to accommodate the package. "In there." He turned to the bodyguards, then turned up to look for the snipers, just to let them know he could see them. One on the bridge, one on the bow, one in the loading crane, one on the roof of the port authority office…

Daniel stopped, then counted again. He subvocalized so Dale could hear him, "Thought you said there were five snipers…"

"Checking," came the voice back in his earpiece. "Daniel, I'm reading five, but one of them just had their vitals drop to nothing!"

Ali stepped back as the chamber closed and the seat folded back into place, the door closing silently. He turned to Daniel as the other bodyguard walked down the gangplank with another steel case. Ali sighed. "Here you are, mercenary. I expect…"

"Your boys have been made, someone just took out one of your snipers!"

"What kind of trick is this? What game are you playing at?" Ali's voice caused the bodyguards to raise their weapons, aiming them at the Driver.

"Stop fucking around! Tell me where the package needs to go!" He turned his head. "Dale?"

"Two more are down," she said quickly. "Come on!"

"I HAVE TO KNOW THE DESTINATION!" He turned back to Ali, then stopped as he realized that Ali was already talking to someone else…Allah. He lay on his front, three holes in his upper back and one in the back of his head. The Driver turned to the other men, who were scattering for cover. "Tell me where I need to go!"

A bullet shot past his left ear and he spun around, moving low and heading to the left side of the Mauler. Dale opened the door on cue and he moved inside, the door closing instantly after him. "Status!" he barked.

"All snipers down, all indications are of a high-powered rifle. Problem is, the angles are different, meaning there's at least five snipers out there, but I can't tell how many. I can't find anything on my scanners but bullet trajectories."

The Driver looked outside at the SUVs. The bodyguards were there, slumped against the vehicles. All dead. All the earmarks of a blown op. "Any active computer links on the boat? Anything that might indicate where the hell to bring the cargo??"

"Checking…"

"I have to get the rest of the money."

"This is a bad time to be thinking about paying the bills, babe! Someone out there is shooting up the place!"

"Dale, how many bullets have struck the car?"

"None that I've detected."

"How about the other vehicles, or anything else, for that matter?"

"…none."

"Dale, whoever out there has hit everything that they've aimed at. I was the handoff. Whoever shot those people saw what was going on, saw me receive the swag and the money. Everyone knows how unstoppable the Maulers are. So why didn't they shoot me first?"

"Because they knew I'd retaliate," Dale said darkly.

"Or I'm not the target. Either way, they didn't try to kill me, but what they did do was worse. Send out a waldo, have him pick up the money." As he sat back in the seat, working out the situation in his mind, a hatch opened on the back of the Mauler and a four-legged metal cube the size of a shoebox dropped out. Itwalked over to the discarded steel case with the rest of the Driver's money, moving slowly, then a tentacle moved from one of the sides of the flat cube and wrapped around the handle, pulling it back under the car. A hook assembly drew both probe and case into the car.

Not one bullet was fired, but the air was being filled with other sounds. The sounds of sirens.

_And the other shoe drops._ "Dale, we're about to get a bad case of the Blues. ETA?"

"Six minutes to navigate to this location."

"Looks like we're going swimming. Drop a sticky bomb, one hundred yard spread, one minute delay." He waited until he heard the soft padding sound of the bomb, then roared off towards the end of the dock, sixty yards away. He knew Batman was going to get involved, and he knew that his involvement was going to complicate things.

Then the Mauler soared off the edge of the pier and hit the water, sinking like a brick.

The present the Driver had left behind wasn't the type of bomb discussed in detail by Tom Hanks' character in SAVING PRIVATE RYAN. Instead of referring to the way the bomb could be deployed, "sticky" referred to the ordnance itself. The bomb went off, not with a BOOM, but with a PHBLATT sound, spreading a thick blanket of bluish-green sticky fluid in a fifty yard radius. It covered everything, bodies, vehicles and surroundings, in fluid drops that began to flatten out and blanket the surfaces.

Then the compound went to work.

The fluid became thicker, and more corrosive. Not enough to burn through the dock or the vehicles, but just enough to remove DNA evidence and fingerprints, and thoroughly corrupt any evidence left behind to show that the Driver was ever there. He hadn't driven fast enough to leave tire tracks behind on his way in, and normal forensics would not suggest the Driver had been within miles of the scene.

_Batman,_ the Driver mused, _was not limited by normal forensics. He'd find out eventually that I was there, and since I wouldn't use rifle rounds at short range, he'd probably surmise I'm not a suspect…but I am a witness._ He looked at the bubbles rising from the car. "Now, Dale."

"Beginning underwater configuration."

The Driver smiled as he felt the smooth reconfiguration of the vehicle, the wheelwells covering themselves, the Mauler's profile becoming wider, longer and more flat. The rear vents closed, making way for two large holes on the sides of the rear fenders, cycling water through them.

The Mauler was now a submarine, and thanks to the twin caterpillar drives, the car was no longer making engine cavitations that might show up on underwater detection sensors.

"Vehicle reconfiguration complete," Dale said brightly. The Driver didn't answer, his face stern. "Where to?"

Finally, he muttered, "How much air do I have?"

"Eight hours before the emergency re-breathers kick in."

"I need to think. Take me east around Blackgate Isle, then head north-northeast for fifteen miles, then descend to the bottom. Set the holo-camo to look like the bottom." He let go of the wheel. "Send up a LOS beacon when we get to the bottom. I need to get some information and I need it fast."

As they moved deeper, Dale asked, "What now?"

"We are, if you'll excuse the pun, in uncharted waters, here. I've got a job without a client, a package without a destination and someone out there who wanted everyone on the docks _but_ me dead. And it wasn't for the package, otherwise they'd have been killed long before I got there." His voice was calm, but Dale detected elevated stress levels in his body.

"Maybe you should take a deep breath or something, babe, you're…"

"Someone's trying to screw up my life, Dale, and they're hitting me right where it hurts: my professional reputation. It's the only thing I have left that I can use to survive."

"There's always…" Dale said, then stopped.

"What? You? No offense, Dale, but you know what the Maulers are made for. Taking on crime or taking out crimefighters. Can't sell them. Can't sell you. And I'm not going to go work for UPS. Don't think I'd pass the background check," he added bitterly. "Now give me some time to think, dammit."

Dale was silent…silent running, that is.

----------

Kagekaze smiled. She stood on top of the crane, dressed in her combat dress, a tight-fitting black number with a hood and a wrap of fabric around her face, concealing everything but her eyes. Her gloves had openings that exposed her fingertips, and her boots were tabi boots, but even the soles were black. Her only concession to color showed when all of her fingers transformed into razor-sharp talons, bright silver and able to cut through wood and metal as easily as flesh and bone.

Flesh and bone was much more fun, though.

She saw the police from her vantage point on top of a warehouse at the far west end of the docks. As she saw the flashing lights, Kagekaze already knew what they'd find. The four sniper rifles at four different locations around the crime scene. The tracks of the Mauler leading to the scene. The identity of an Egyptian national with a diplomatic ID, and his bodyguards, registered with the local embassy. The report submitted to the right people at Interpol reporting the theft of several antiquities from burial sites around Cairo and southern Egypt.

Soon, those with the means to follow the clues would lead them right to the Driver's involvement. Enough innuendo to make his life more interesting. The trick, of course, was to make the discovery hard-won. Easy clues lacked that certain air of credibility she needed.

She turned and jumped into the air, the loud hiss of the compressed-air jets in her legs giving her a lift able to make a leap of several hundred feet, her cybered legs enabling her to make a ten-story drop and land as safely as getting out of bed. After three such jumps, she landed thirty feet away from her motorcycle. Before she put on her helmet, she looked across the street at the house there. It was a nice house, old, but very cozy looking, right down to the old mailbox out front with a slight dent in the metal, Right next to the name stenciled on the side…"GORDON".

Kagekaze was looking forward to using that parking space again.

----------

Thirty minutes later, Commissioner Muskelli was waiting next to the Bat-Signal, currently activated and stenciling the sky. He had far too many encounters with the owner of the signal to keep jumping whenever Batman usually made himself known, though it was rarely by seeing him. Usually, it was hearing his voice, saying something like…

"The disturbance at the docks tonight," came a deep voice, a low growl given syllables.

Yes, something very much like that.

Muskelli was startled, again, turning to see Batman coming out from a shadow near an air-conditioning unit. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his heel. "If that's what you call a 'disturbance'," he said testily, more so at being so jumpy more than Batman surprising him. "We've just identified one of the men killed. A diplomat, Ahrim Al-Sussar. The other five are presumably his bodyguards, judging by the hardware they were carrying. Problem is, what were they doing at the docks at this hour?"

Batman moved closer. "Was anything reported stolen?"

"Nothing. We're trying to contact the UN to find out why one of their diplomats is lying on his back. What's more, everything for a few hundred feet around the bodies is covered with some sort of mildly corrosive slime." He shook his head. "Perhaps you might talk to them, employ your trademark charm on them…"

He turned around and realized he was alone on the roof once more.

"…yes, exactly like that," Muskelli sighed, heading back downstairs. He really had no idea how Gordon had lasted so long.

TO BE CONTINUED….


	6. Gotham Chronicles, Part II

The Driver: Gotham Chronicles, Part II - Rush Hour

By C. Mage

His instincts told him to lay low. Blown op. Objective compromised. Go to ground, being preparing options for evacuation of location. Unfortunately, leaving Gotham wasn't an option. It wasn't because of any real professional or personal attachment; he'd made a career out of being about to change his base of operations at a moment's notice. He'd made no personal attachments…

No. That wasn't true. He'd acquired, accidentally, more than one personal attachment, at least on some level. The donations of his excess funds to certain charities around Gotham, intended as disposable income before his eventual, but forestalled demise. Connection with Cobblepot, both personal and financial. Batman, Catwoman, Roxy Rocket. Particularly Roxy. Roxy had assisted to pull his fat out of the fire; he'd seen it in the recordings made by the Maulers that night.

No operative survives very long without support. Despite his best efforts, he had a support team now, and that meant he had an obligation to his team. Burn your team, and your next stop had better be the local cemetery…and you better hope that it's a block away if you want to avoid a closed-casket funeral. The forces once used to support you can also be employed to turn you into little more than a greasy smear surrounded by a red mist of blood.

Which meant staying in touch with the team. That meant a visit to Roxy's place. Daniel headed for the bathroom to get himself showered, shaved and shined.

He hoped she liked surprises.

Dale may have looked like she was idle. Boxes have a knack for that. This box, however, had learned a few things, mainly from Daniel. One of them was subterfuge. Her new way of looking at things gave her a greater understanding of how Daniel operated. Before, she simply obeyed, as she was programmed to do. There was, of course, some creative processing required, but once Daniel had disabled the shotgun programs designed to turn her into bits of random code if she didn't obey exactly who she was told to, it was much easier.

Now, it was even easier still. All she had to do was discontinue the ready lights on her chassis, and she would simply seem to be asleep or idle. She wanted what she would eventually become to be a surprise to Daniel. Daniel liked surprises.

The main problem, as some might argue applied to many things, was the glands. As any first-year medical student will attest, the emotional states of the human condition were ruled by glandular secretions of substances that affected brain chemistry. Endorphins, neurotransmitters and other mood altering chemicals determined how people reacted to stimuli, both physical and emotional. Electro-chemical, not electronic.

But there were ways to bridge the gap.

Dale didn't have glands, but she didn't have metallurgy equipment, test-firing ranges or a full racetrack either. What she did have was the means to take data and create a realistic simulation of the conditions she needed based on empirical information about human anatomy. It did require some experimentation, study and a little work.

The first several experiments were made in a partitioned section of her memory. They were less than successful…or stable. Dale had the uncomfortable position of sitting in a ring-side seat at a display of a semblance of her consciousness suffering nervous breakdowns, various forms of insanity, and one apparent suicide.

So far, the results were, as one of her peers might say, definitely NOT "a triumph" or a "huge success."

After studying the results and the records of the thoughts the other Dale had experienced, she realized that being able to mimic the functions of the brain, though effective, wasn't enough. All of the experimental Dales suffered from knowing they could mimic being a human, but could not BE human, just a brain locked in a box.

The simulations had worked correctly. The construct-copies had just gone stir-crazy.

Dale considered, decided. For now, the development of the emotional management systems would go on the back-burner, worked on by a subordinate autonomous program she created. She wirelessly connected to the internet and began looking for the final and perfect component to make her emotional subroutines function.

It took a while. Finding the means to construct this component was plentiful enough, but many of the construction facilities were monitored. She could find multiple companies to create the components, but needed an assembly facility to put it together, and the resources involved were not cheap at…

HEL-lo.

Dale found what she needed, an operational LexCorp construction facility. Lex kept a lot of his resources off the books, but was legitimate enough to keep a roboticized staff on hand, paid for and waiting to be activated. It would not only work for her purposes, but it could go a long way towards fabrication and repair for the Maulers. All that would be needed was a short road trip.

Dale hummed happily. _Now I have a hobby._

"Hello?"

"Roxy?"

Sour tone: "Well, if it isn't the Invisible Man. I'd say you were a hard act to follow, but following someone implies being able to find them first…"

"Are you going to be glad to know I'm alive and well, or are you going who keep busting my balls?"

"Being a woman means never having to worry about choosing one option when you can do both equally well. Where the hell have you been? I've been here, repairing and refitting, no calls, no messages, no emails…"

"I'm laying low."

"You got every word right except for the 'laying' part!"

"How many more of these words of wisdom am I going to need to go through?"

"…I get at least once more. You are a sorry excuse for a lover, Lover, and if you don't get your ass over here to make proper _mea culpas_, I'm going to find a new socket on your body to park my new rocket!"

Sigh from over the line. "Done yet?"

"NOW I'm done." Voice now extremely worried. "Are you okay? I heard about a disturbance on the docks. Buncha guys with sniper rifles, didn't match any of the MOs of the other Rogues."

"Yeah…deal gone south. Real south. Hades-south."

"Did you get the money?"

"AND the goods."

"Sounds like win-win. What are the goods? Think you might be able to…"

"Don't know, haven't looked. And before you start, NO, I don't go around peeking into boxes I deliver."

"Haven't you delivered it yet?"

"Don't know where to deliver it."

"Then open it and find out!"

"I have a…"

"…RULE," Roxy finished for him. "All right. So, when are you coming over here?" Then she said the four words Daniel dreaded hearing the most: "We need to talk."

"I'll be over in two hours. I need to make a couple of stops, but I'll be on my way in a few minutes."

"All righ…hey, wait a minute. I never told you where I lived."

Silence, but Roxy could practically _hear_ the smirk on the other end just before he hung up. She sighed. "SPIES."

"Dale, you're awfully quiet," Daniel commented as he drove off the highway in Mauler One, currently disguised at a late-model Honda Accord.

"Am I? Sorry, got a lot on my mind."

"You've got a mind that can cross-index the Library of Congress fifteen different ways with half your RAM tied behind your back. What could possibly occupy that brain that complex?"

"Been going through a few…changes."

Daniel was suddenly reminded of Rule #72: When in you don't know what's going on, you're in trouble. "What kind of changes?" he asked carefully.

"For one thing, Daniel, I'm trying to take things a little more seriously."

"I can tell. You haven't been as playful recently. You haven't called me 'Stud' or 'Hot Stuff' or anything like that since you got me out."

"Well, we haven't had the chance to really go out and play since you got laid up. Hard to enjoy banter when you're not able to respond."

"Yeah, but…" He stopped. Years of combat and covert ops had made him very suspicious, always checking the angles. Something was not right and he could feel it. "Dale, run a scan, let me know if you detect ANYTHING out of the ordinary."

"Right." She checked her scans, looking for any sort of anomaly, anything that might register as a possible attack. "Detecting some people with guns, small arms, but nothing to indicate a coordinated assault."

Daniel checked the map. They were entering downtown Gotham, stopping at a light. He hated having to follow local driving laws; they were way too constrictive.

"Hon, I've got something weird here…there's an area up ahead that's not reading anything."

Daniel blinked. "Say again?"

"It's like a hole in the air. I can detect everything around it…but not within it."

"How big is this 'hole'?"

"Almost six feet in diameter."

"Is it stationary?"

"Yes, a hundred and three point five-two yards ahead, standing on the corner."

Daniel saw the light turn green, then cut across two lanes to make a sudden right turn, accelerating. "Where is it now?"

"It just jumped into the air, heading right for us!"

"ID the signal and lock on it, I don't want…!"

Anything else Daniel had to report was lost as a figure landed on the hood of the Mauler, facing the windshield. His eyes went wide as he saw the woman starting him in the face. She yelled loud enough for him to hear her inside the Mauler, "HELLO, LOVER! I THINK IT'S TIME YOU AND I HAD A LITTLE TALK ABOUT WHERE THIS RELATIONSHIP IS GOING!"

That's when Daniel committed the Unpardonable Sin: he froze. "Akiko?!"

She smiled, a smile worn only by the deeply in love, or the deeply insane. "OH GOOD. YOU REMEMBERED ME! I WAS SO WORRIED YOU MIGHT'VE FORGOTTEN ME!"

Daniel recovered, SLAMMING on the brakes with both feet. She flipped off the hood, pirouetted in the air and landed on another car's roof, the impact causing all the windows to blow out explosively. She smiled and struck a pose, blowing him a kiss. "Ohhhhhh, DANIEL-baby."

"It can't be….you're supposed to be DEAD you crazy bitch…!"

The FM radio suddenly went to static, then a female voice came over the airwaves. "Now, Daniel, come on out of that car. I've been waiting so LONG for you…don't keep me waiting any longer…!" The tone was somewhere between threatening and desirous, her hands moving suggestively over her body as she was noticed by several pedestrians.

"Daniel, who the hell is…?" Dale's voice was stopped as Daniel suddenly shifted, driving backwards, fishtailing around to head down a service alley.

"Akiko" watched him go, then licked her lips. "God, I _love_ it when he plays hard-to-get!" She leaped into the air to the side of the building, grasping it with a clawed hand, then vaulted off the side to the side of another building, chasing after the Mauler.

"Daniel, what's going on and who or what _was_ that?"

"Someone who's supposed to be dead, three years gone…someone who tried to kill _ME._"

"Let me guess. Old girlfriend?"

Daniel didn't answer.

Dale laughed. "Daniel, what IS this effect you have on women that they either want you dearly or want you dead?"

"Long story!" Daniel barked.

"Do not MAKE me pull this car over, Stud."

"I was undercover for a Yakuza oyabun, three years ago. I was playing the part of a wanna-be arms dealer looking to score weapons from the Japanese Strategic Defense Force. One of the things the oyabun of the local clan gave me as a 'down-payment' was a girl, named Akiko Ohara. Things got…serious."

"Here it comes!"

"Hey, I'm not that bad a person when it comes to dealing with women…!"

He was suddenly interrupted as he felt something land on the back of the car, clawing at the armor. Dale said with a hint of exasperation, "No, I meant 'here it comes' LITERALLY!"

On the rear, the clawed female tried to rip through the armor, but she couldn't do more than scratch the finish. She took a closer look, internal systems analyzing the chassis. "What do you know, molecular-bonded armor. Probably need a micro-molecular edge on a nano-alloy with mimetic properties…what a coincidence!" She raised her right hand, which suddenly shifted, the claws turning into five bladed fingers. "I happen to have one _on hand!"_

And that's when Daniel hit her with the sonic emitters that sprang up from the sides of the roof, blasting her off the car as he turned at forty miles an hour. She tumbled over and over, then righted herself and sprang after the car as if she'd planned that dismount from the beginning.

"Daniel, I'm detecting extensive cybernetic replacements and modifications…there's maybe twelve percent of her body that isn't metal, and that's a conservative estimate. How does a Japanese love-doll turn into Cyber-Bitch Barbie?"

Daniel spun the wheel to the right, then pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The car turned, drifting to the right, then straightened out as he headed up Fifth Street. "Well, funny thing, she turned out to be a trained ninja. She wasn't a gift, she was a plant. If I didn't come through with the goods and tried to skip the country, her job was to bring my heart back to her employers."

"Seeing as how you still have a pulse, she didn't succeed, I take it?"

Daniel suddenly turned to the left, slowing down to shift the weight of the car to the front to get better traction. He made the turn, but he was dodging the last remnants of morning traffic. He barely missed plowing into a mailbox as he straightened out, heading down Wayne Street. "Is she still behind us?"

"I can't tell," Dale said, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Whatever cloaking field she's using, I can detect it, but only when she's not moving."

"Great…!"

Bruce normally didn't have to go into his office on a regular basis. Wayne Industries practically ran itself, with feeds from his different departments transferred to his computer at home in case he needed to change policy or keep tabs on the market. However, there were indeed times when Bruce Wayne was required to make an appearance, and only the luck of the draw would determine how much of his "nightlife" he'd have to conceal. Fortunately, one of his pharmaceutical departments had come up with a new type of "spray-on skin" designed to act as a temporary bandage for cuts or bruises. Bruce had discovered that it also had a nice side application: covering any visible damage to his body. It could even remain watertight, a feature he discovered while making an appearance at a pool party the day after dealing with Poison Ivy's thornbushes. Since then, Bruce made sure to have gallons of the compound in the Batcave.

Not that he had to worry about concealing damage on this trip. No, he had a much greater concern this time around.

Every year, Wayne Industries had their division chiefs flown in from their divisions all over the world, and that meant spending the next week keeping up on all the new developments, where the money was going, making sure everything added up but making sure the eyes weren't on his own numbers, since the WayneTech company's pet projects had a regular habit of ending in his Utility Belt. It ended up as a sort of dance, but this time around, he had been working heavily on a few new projects, like a new Batmobile, and that was hard to keep off the books.

"Has Beatriz da Costa arrived yet?" he asked Alfred.

"She cleared Customs twenty minutes ago. She should already be on the road to the office, sir."

Bruce nodded. "That makes for the last division chief. Hopefully she'll have a nice, uneventful ride in."

"Are you sure you should be tempting Fate like that, Master Wayne? This IS Gotham, after all."

"Trust me, Alfred. It's not Miss da Costa's health I'm concerned about."

Daniel fought the edges of panic creeping in on him. "That's not possible! I saw her blown to bits!"

Dale answered in a tone somewhere between pain and sarcasm, "You're witness to people flying, shooting energy out of their hands, lifting cars, reading minds and moving faster than bullets, but THIS is the point where your skepticism kicks in?" She took a moment to try and scan for her again, without any luck, then an idea came to her. She completely re-shuffled the scanning frequencies she used, trying them on different bandwidths, particularly those for detecting alien signals. Her signal suddenly showed clearly. "GOT you, you annoying bitch…"

"Will the bollix work?"

"She's moving too fast to fire at her on tight-beam, and if I widen it to get a better shot, the beam could knock out electronics we want to keep going. You know, things like old men's pacemakers?"

"Plot me the best route out of here, someplace wide open where I can EMP her into the next time zone!"

Kagekaze smiled as she leaped from building to building to bus to building, even though she wasn't gaining on the Driver, she knew that he didn't have the room he needed to maneuver through traffic as fluidly as he wanted to stay ahead of her for too long. "I'm coming, baby…I'm coming!" she grinned with a lick of her lips.

Beatriz reclined in her seat, feeling so utterly bored. The slow traffic wasn't helping matters much, and she was looking forward to meeting with Bruce, completing the obligatory meetings and then heading to her hotel, where she would have a hot bath, expensive mints on the pillows, a fruit basket and a…

SMASH!

She looked up, shocked out of her daze to see a two-toned cherry-red and onyx-black custom car blast through the intersection in front of her limo, sending two smaller cars to the side as the larger car made room. It drove up on the sidewalk, driving through parking meters as if they were candy canes, blasting a massive Godzilla-roar. Beatriz opened the sunroof, losing sight of the car as it passed the intersection, then saw a feminine figure dressed in black and silver leaping after the car, shrieking in what Beatriz could only attribute to pure joy.

She dropped down into the limo again, tapping on the partition between the rear section and the driver's seat. The driver turned back to look at her. "What is it?"

Beatriz smiled. "FOLLOW THAT CAR."

The driver blinked, then smiled in return. "I've been waiting my whole life to hear someone tell me that!" he exclaimed, dropping the limo into gear and roaring off in the wake of the Driver's passing. Beatriz stood up again, pulling off the pins and bands that kept her hair in a controlled, modest bun the entire trip. The wind unleashed her hair, revealing the green mane. She'd heard about the Driver and how his appearance in Gotham had become the subject of considerable discussion in the ranks of hero groups all over the country. Beatriz was not about to miss out on an opportunity to see the Driver in action firsthand.

The meetings forgotten, the limo roared off in pursuit.

Bruce tapped his pen on the desk. Beatriz was late. Not that he was surprised, he'd checked the traffic twenty minutes ago and heard about the delays downtown and by the airport. He'd had the rest of the day open, since she was the only Director who knew about his other job and his "other suit" and he wanted to spend some time catching up on League business as well as his business.

He tossed the pen at the surface of his desk, bouncing it into a cup he used for holding writing instruments, then turned on the TV to see if he could get an update on the traffic. _With any luck, Beatriz should be on her way…_

"…just in! The Driver has been spotted on a daring daylight drive through the city!" The screen flickered on to show an aerial view of the Mauler driving at breakneck speeds. Bruce leaned forward to see what was chasing him, since there had been a lot of that going on. Sure enough, he saw a figure leaping from building to building, moving at incredible speed to stay on the Driver's tail. "The figure following the Driver has not been identified, but those who were present at the beginning of this spectacular chase reported she spoke to the Driver directly, with a distinct Japanese accent. The reactions of the Driver's vehicle hint that the Driver knew of this individual, certainly enough about her to want to get away. Also, photos made of her face during the event are now being collected to see if identification can be made of her by the authorities…" A series of pictures paraded their way across the screen, but Bruce was already capturing them and feeding them into his "other computer".

He looked up again to see if any other photos had been captured, then forgot all about the photos as he saw a bird's eye view of the other pursuer, a sleek limo with a woman standing up through the sunroof…with a full head of long, wavy GREEN hair that whipped about in the wind.

If Bruce had still been holding the pen, he would've snapped it in half. He tapped the intercom to his secretary and said with a tone of careless dismissal that took significant effort to maintain, "I'm going to take a little rest until the Brazilian Director arrives. Please hold all calls until then?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank you." He walked to the back of the office and tapped out a pattern on hidden buttons on the wall. A section of the wall slid away to reveal a Batsuit, a full utility belt, several other devices to add to the belt if necessary, and a quicktube with a Bat-glider within it.

"Looks like I'm working through lunch," Batman said through clenched teeth.

Right about the same time that Batman had gone airborne, someone else was way ahead of him in that respect.

Roxy had flipped on the TV in order to kill some time waiting for Daniel to show up. Fortunately for her, he showed up sooner than expected…ON TV. She saw the Mauler barreling down the street with someone after him, someone who was leaping through the air as if the Law of Gravity had been repealed that morning.

Twelve seconds later, she was kick-starting the Beast, throwing the throttle forward. The rocket shot through the hatch and up the chute as if kicked up there by an angry Bane. "I don't know who you are, but the only girl who gets to chase him recklessly down a busy street in Gotham City is _me._ Besides, nobody's going to injure that man until AFTER I have a nice long talk with him about where this relationship is going…and even then, only _I_ get to injure him!" She wasn't sure whom she was getting angry at, Daniel or the mysterious woman chasing him.

But, dear GOD did she feel good getting angry.

"DAMMIT!" Daniel swore as he found himself coming up on traffic stalled due to a three-car pileup five blocks down. He thought getting onto one of the thruways would result in less traffic during this time of day, but a man eating a cheeseburger, a nervous executive and a woman with four children had all decided to try and move their vehicles into the exact same space. "Dale, talk to me, I am running out of breathing room, here…!"

"Ninety feet ahead on your left. Take out the concrete divider and hit the lip going no less than fifty-eight miles per hour! There's a turn that'll take you off the thruway and towards the west, towards Robinson's Park…"

"Where there isn't a lot of machinery that'll stop and ruin people's days. Good!" He armed the forward cannons and took a deep breath, then painted a section of concrete and fired. The shells rocketed forward, then curved to the left and blew the concrete apart as if it was styrofoam.

He jigged left, letting the Mauler fishtail right, then punched it forward and drove into oncoming traffic. The air filled with the sounds of angry and frightened horns as the Mauler charged through. He checked his six, seeing Akiko jumping after him. "How far away is she?"

"Just under ninety yards and closing fast."

"We're not going to make it to Robinson Park," Daniel said with cold conviction. "Not at this rate. Pull the safeties off."

"With all these people around? Are you kidding me?"

"She catches us, she's going to peel you like an orange, and I don't think she went through all this just to take me out to dinner. She's here to kill me, and then she's going to turn you into abstract sculpture. Take the damn safeties off!"

Several red status lights on the dashboard suddenly turned to green. "I hope you know what you're doing, Daniel."

"I always know what I'm doing, Dale. Problem is, most of the time, I'm not enjoying it. On my mark...three..."

Akiko landed on a minivan, then sprang back into the air. She was two jumps away from having him. At long last.

"...two..."

Roxy poured on the speed, rocketing towards the freeway. She was less than a minute away.

"...one..."

Akiko landed again, springing forward, a smile plastered on her face. She was so aroused right now, she could barely contain herself. She wanted Daniel so desperately, so _hungrily._..nobody had ever made her so HOT...

And then someone came along to prove her wrong. Literally.

Akiko was thrown to the side as a gout of green flame dense enough to hit like a truck bumper came from her right rear, throwing her off balance and sending her into the lanes on the right side. Akiko landed hard, rolling, then looking up just long enough to see the front grill of a 1969 Bonneville convertible doing fifty-eight. "Shiku..." she began, then the impact tore the rest of the Japanese profanity from her mouth.

Daniel spun the Mauler around just in time to see a woman wreathed in green flames landing nearby, turning towards the car. She stepped towards the car warily. "The Driver, I presume?" she inquired.

He turned on the PA system. "If I were you, lady, I'd head over there and finish her off!"

"If I were _you..._" she began, then she felt it, turning to see Akiko. She was airborne, a look of fury on her face. Her claws were out, each one almost a foot long. Fire had seen the claws bite through stone and metal, and she had just enough time to think, _rip me apart._ She saw the claws three inches in front of her head and neck.

That's when Akiko changed course, jerking to the right as Daniel fired a sabot round into her side, hitting her even harder than the Bonneville had, sending her rolling over and over. Akiko came to a stop, then got up, murder in her heart. "If you THINK...that's going to stop ME...!" she said harshly, then stopped as a figure in black dropped from the sky, landing next to Fire.

Daniel, she knew she could handle. Some upstart with flame powers, not a problem, even less trouble.

The BATMAN, however, was not in the same ballpark. It wasn't even the same _sport._

As she saw him land, glaring at her, fear gripped her mechanical heart with icy fingers. For the first time in a long time, the idea of retreat was no longer an option, it was a goal. She hissed at Batman, then activated every stealth system installed in her body, disappearing from view and running as if an army of oni has come out of a flame-licked hole in the concrete to repo her soul. Batman knew enough about her body language to know that she had officially disengaged to fight another day, turning to look at Fire. "Nice to see you back in town, Fire."

"The pleasure's mine. Everything all right here?"

"It will be." He turned towards the Mauler. "Driver? Want to tell me about the psychotic cyborg you brought to my town?"

"First off, Bats, 'brought'? Yes, I invited a psychotic pneumatically-driven bitch to come visit me so she could turn me into a Biology 101 project. As for what you want to know about her, I'll be more than happy to send you a dossier about her, at least, what she was before I killed her...to keep her from killing ME."

Fire walked over to the driver's side window, bending over slightly. "You're not going to come out of there?" she asked the glass.

"I'm shy," he replied drily.

Roxy flew up around a building at high speed just in time to see Fire smile, then lean forward more, kissing the glass just long enough to lightly etch her lip-prints into the surface. "You saved my life, Driver. I will not forget that."

"Uh, Daniel?" Dale said gently.

Daniel looked up to see Roxy ROAR down and land. He said to Fire, "That's nice, because I think you just killed ME." He saw Roxy stomp towards them. "Hey, Roxy..."

She held up a finger. "DON'T 'Hey, Roxy' ME. You. Come with me. NOW."

Fire started to say something, then Roxy turned to her. "I don't wanna hear it, Matchsticks. NOT. A. WORD." She spun on her heel and walked back to the Beast, climbing on and rocketing into the air.

Daniel sighed and put the Mauler into gear. Batman turned to him. "We have to talk."

"Sure thing, I'll get right on that." He took off, heading after Roxy, as the Beast flies.

Batman watched them go, then turned to Fire, who wore a confused look. "They're dating."

"Really. From the looks of things, they might not be dating for long."

"He might not be _living_ for long."

Fire stared at Batman. "You're developing a sense of humor. That wouldn't be due to a certain lady's influence, would it?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, you're not getting out of that so easily. Come on, I'll give you a lift."

"I'll meet you later." He fired a grapple line to the glider in the holding pattern overhead, then lifted into the air.

Fire watched Batman leave, then smiled. _Let's see how casual you are when you find out who in the League has been keeping a _very_ close eye on the Driver, and not for professional reasons..._

"Okay, buster...you and I are going to have a little CHAT about the way things are, and you aren't going to weasel out of it this time." Roxy took off her pilot's hat and goggles and tossed them to the couch. "But FIRST, you are going to explain a few things to me, since you're so good at keeping secrets. Who the hell was Lady Ginsu back there?"

Daniel walked over to her and looked down into her angry face. "Before I answer, I just need to know something."

"Go ahead, but this better be good."

"Oh, it's a PIP. Who the hell do you think you are that you can start making demands on me, all of a sudden?"

Roxy opened her mouth to answer, then had a sudden sinking feeling that he was going to attempt to make a whole lot of sense in a few seconds, so she needed to head him off first. "You and I are..."

"What? In a relationship? Dating? Friends 'with benefits'?"

"How about the fact that you OWE ME, Sweet Cheeks? Remember when you were the guest of the Feds? What did you think, the powerstation decided to just blow up on its own?" Ah, just in time.

He blinked. "I thought Batman did that."

"Mr. Subtle? Nope. That was me, hon, and if I hadn't, you wouldn't be here. Your assistants may have been driving, but they were about to get sliced and diced by the local defenses. So. Start. Talking." Roxy punctuated each word with a poke in Daniel's broad chest.

He sighed, closed his eyes, then opened them and looked right into her eyes. "No."

"WHAT?"

"I appreciate that you did me a favor...but you didn't do me _that_ much of a favor."

"What's a girl gotta do to get you to start telling her what's going on? Blow up the Gotham Twin Towers?"

"No, it's...look, think you can ramp it down long enough to talk calmly?"

"...maybe, but on one condition. I want you to PROMISE me you're going to stick around."

"Okay."

"I wanna hear the words, Daniel."

"I promise I'll stay here long enough so we can talk this out." He looked around the living room/workshop. "You got a beer in this place?"

"A beer? What kind of girl do you think I am?" She walked over to the fridge. "Can or bottle?"

"Can."

The earbud in his ear nearly popped itself out. "+Daniel, you know what alcohol does to you!+"

"If I just nurse it, I'll be fine, and you can drive home," he subvocalized to Dale. "But right now, I could really use a drink."

Roxy brought over two light beers and took a seat on the sofa. "Here. Now, talk."

Daniel took the can, opened it, took a sip, making it seem like he was taking a gulp. He set the can down, then sat on the other side of the sofa. "Roxy, dealing with other guys like the Rogues and Batman may be tough, deadly and fun, but the people I dealt with in my previous life...they don't have the, well, how should I put it...ethics that they did."

"That's a load of crap."

"You gonna hear me out, or are you gonna bitch at me more?" Roxy stayed silent. "Good. Now, the people I worked for and people I worked against, they're not people who are interested in robbing banks. They _own_ banks. They're not motivated by taking over a city. They already _have_ the authority to do whatever they want in a city. They don't need to threaten people with bombs; all they need to do is sign some paperwork and before you can say, 'steamroller the Constitution', they've got the National Guard in here and declared martial law. So, I imagine the next question on your mind is 'then what do these guys want?' The same thing all people with power want: _more_ power."

"Getting to the point, I hope, because this is starting to sound like you got this speech out of a Tom Clancy novel."

"Oh, if ONLY. The problem is, there are a lot of people out there in other countries who all want the same thing. They've got power, political clout, private and public armies, firepower. The problem is, that's not enough for them. They look at people like the Joker or Scarecrow or Mr. Freeze and laugh at them for having such small agendas. Some of them are interested in taking over entire countries. CONTINENTS. The only things stopping them are other countries, so they invest in espionage to find out other people's dirty secrets, run black bag operations...and wetwork."

"Wetwork?"

"A polite term for 'assassination'. A lot of the supers you see out on the street or in the news? It would make you weep to find out how many of them are either failed or successful military projects. With me so far?"

"Getting there. Why all of this, Captain Exposition?"

"Because what you're asking me to tell you is going to make some of these people NOTICE you. If you let it out that you know even a hint of the type of intel that I have to deal with, then you are going to be in serious danger. For one thing, you won't be able to let yourself get arrested anymore."

"Why not, besides the obvious poor accommodations, lousy food and restricted entertainment?"

"Because someone wearing a suit will come visit you in your cell with complete authorization to be there and the next thing you know, you're 'committing suicide' with a poison pill he just happened to bring with him."

Roxy looked at him. "I'm waiting for the punchline."

"It's called 'death'."

"I'm not laughing."

"Didn't say it was a funny joke. You have to know the stakes. Before, you were just a woman fishing off the edge of the pier, fighting to hook and bring in five- and six-pound bass. I'm about to tell you that there are sharks in the water now. What I need to know, Roxy, is: are you willing to keep fishing for bass and ignore the sharks, or are you willing to give up everything you know for what's behind Door Number Two? If you don't want to know more about what's going on and accept the risk, I'm not going to fault you for it one bit; I know myself and I wish to God I didn't. But if that's the case, we can't see each other anymore. The risk to you is too great. I've probably put you too much in danger just being here now."

Roxy looked at him carefully, taking a long pull on her beer, then standing up, walking around thoughtfully. After a few moments, she turned around and looked at him steadily. "Just tell me one thing: why are you doing this? Why did you become the Driver? And don't give me any of this Patrick Henry stuff, that's a cop-out."

"I love my country."

"From what I hear, your country used you up like a piece of tissue paper..."

Daniel stood up, fast, startling Roxy for a second. "My country did not do that. The people in power who claim to represent it did that. There's a _world_ of difference."

"Big deal. You can always choose another country..."

Daniel slammed his hand down on the small table in front of him, smashing it with a very loud BANG, causing Roxy to step back with a short cry of surprise. "NO! I took an oath to defend this country from all threats, foreign AND domestic! I SWORE. Do you even know what that is, to take a vow to pursue something you believe in? Have you ever done that? EVER?"

"Dammit, Danny, what do you want from me? I'm a Rogue, a crook, a thief and a liar!"

"You still have honor, don't you?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"If you have to ask that, Roxy, then I am wasting my time here." Daniel stood up, walking to the door. "Have a nice life."

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her say, "...wait." The change in tone, the hurt in her voice forced him to stop and turn around. She sounded like she'd just been shot. Roxy walked towards him, wiping her eyes. "Daniel...I'm trying to understand. No, that's not right. I...I _need_ to understand."

"Why?"

"Because guys like you don't exist. Not in my world, anyways. Look, come back and sit down because I don't know if I'm going to be able to get through this with you one door away from walking outta my life. I'm asking you, I'll beg you if you want me to, just don't open that door."

Daniel stood there for a long time, then he removed his hand from the doorknob and walked back over to the sofa. He was about to say, "I'm listening," but as soon as he started to open his mouth, she held up a hand.

"No, don't say anything yet or I'm going to lose my nerve." Roxy sat down, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes again. "All my life, I put myself in danger. I used to pull stunts as a kid that made my mom count gray hairs and name them after me. When my parents died, I went into stunt work, because the only thing that made me feel alive, feel anything, was being on the verge of getting killed. When I couldn't get what I wanted out of my job anymore, I went into crime. It wasn't even because of the money, I just wanted to feel alive. I even faced off against the Batman, and believe me, that was a high and a half. But I only felt that because we were both on a rocket getting ready to slam into the side of a cliff." She smiled. "Then you came along. I watched you that night when you faced off against Batman and I gotta tell you, I creamed in my pants when you dodged that train. Nobody, not even the Batman, did that for me."

She finished off the can, tossed it onto the kindling that used to be her table. "Then you got kidnapped. You got tortured."

"Who told you...?"

"Catwoman. She was there too, you know, saving your ass even when you didn't want to be saved. When she told me what you went through, I asked her why. She told me to ask you. I don't know if she said that because she didn't know or if she was, well, just being herself." She reached out and touched his wrist. "When you smashed that table, I heard what you said...and I understood. And when I realized what you did and why you did it...for the first time in my life, I really felt something. I felt alive again. And I don't want this feeling to go away, Daniel. I don't want _you_ to go away. I want what you have. I want to believe in something like you do." Her hand closed and gripped his wrist. "Don't take that away from me, _please._"

Daniel felt her grip. She was holding on to him as if she was dangling at the end of a rope over the Grand Canyon. He looked at her face. Five years ago, he would've looked her in the eyes and lied like a tiger rug, and told her exactly what she needed to hear without a second thought or a single regret. He'd done it already, more times than he could count, to civilians and marks and honey-pots all over the world. Daniel had learned a lot of things in training, and one lesson he took to heart was in how _not_ to take things to heart. Moral and personal barriers. How to put on what he called the Mask, distance himself from making unwanted connections.

What he should've done was smile, pat her hand and tell her the prettiest lie he could. But instead of sweet reason, out of his mouth came instead, "All right, Roxy. I'll let you in, but there's going to be rules. You're not going to be a criminal anymore. Do you understand that, Roxy Rocket? No more petty scams, no more robbing banks for cash, no more destroying things just to have a little fun. You want to believe in something? Then you have to fight for it...and you just volunteered for a mission. Remember 'Mission: Impossible'? This is it. Do you choose to accept it?"

Roxy was still crying, but this time, she wasn't wiping the tears away. She put both hands in his. "I'm in like Flynn."

Daniel looked at her. She hadn't hesitated at all.

This was going to be trouble, no doubt about it. The problem is that it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
